Until Thine Will Is Done
by LadyTP
Summary: Sansa Stark, back in Winterfell, by her side the man used to be known as the Kingslayer, the one known as the Hound, and the warrior maid Brienne of Tarth. It is Sansa and Jaime's wedding day and Sandor is not thrilled. Especially when he has to live through the day again…and again… A groundhog day AU set after ADWD where Sandor has to live Sansa's wedding day over and over again.
1. Day One

**Author's Notes:** This story has been brewing for a long, long time, starting from a LiveJournal's Sansa-Sandor's community's CommFicMeme prompt in August 2013 for a Groundhog Day AU – where Sansa or Sandor has to keep re-living a day until they get it right. After a shitty first draft I always wanted to get back to it, and did, many times. And finally concluded that if I don't start posting, I will never be incentivised enough to finish this… So here we go!

This first chapter is about the day how it originally pans out, before things start to get interesting… Let me know how you find it!

* * *

 **Day One**

 ** _*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*_**

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

He turned on his pallet trying to ignore the racket that followed; cries and shouts, the clumsy servant girl getting dressing down from her elder, and more clinks, rattles and sobs as the wretched wench tried to clean up the mess. Attempting to cling to the vestiges of deep slumber Sandor squeezed his eyes shut and curled his body into a tight coil. Even through the haze between sleep and wakefulness he knew that he didn't want to wake up just yet.

No more were his nights filled with abyss of dark horrors and impotent fury, only able to be conquered by stupor from drink or fatigue. These days his sleep was unperturbed, but even after many years the notion was still fresh for him and there were mornings when he woke up slowly, marvelling at the lack of nightmares.

Sometimes he wasn't sure what to do with himself, with this newfound freedom.

Nonetheless it was not the leisure of sleep that enticed him this morning, but the dread of the day ahead. Yet it was useless - his senses had been woken and his mind had already started to race ahead like a caged animal. Sandor cursed, pressed his face against the pillow and felt tension in his muscles increasing until he was taut as a bowstring.

 _Fuck!_

Finally he gave up and took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. No two ways about it, time to start the day.

He pushed himself up, kicked the woollen blankets away and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. It was big and sturdy as was the man who slept in it, and as unadorned and practical. His chamber reflected its occupant in all aspects, the only furniture being the bed, a desk, a chair, a wash basin, two shelves on the wall for his small trinkets and two trunks in the corner holding his clothes and boots, as well as serving as seats should more of those be needed. Not that it was often – he seldom entertained guests, male or female.

Who would visit him, the man with no allegiances, no roots in this land and with these people?

Sandor was not in a hurry; another thing that had changed was the luxury of liberty he possessed. If he chose to sleep in, nobody would question him for it. He had duties to fulfil of course – everyone had to earn their keep in Winterfell - but no more was he at the peck and call for every whim of a spoiled boy king.

After flexing his upper arms in a cat-like stretch thus releasing the tension from his powerful shoulders he scratched his beard, absentmindedly. He didn't mind the least the distorted sight his face presented; one half tightly stretched burned skin, the other covered with a beard in a true northern style. Nobody cared how he looked like as long as he did his job, and although Sandor would have been hard-pressed to admit it, sometimes he missed the look of fear and shock in people's eyes. As long as his fate was to be an ugly bastard, at least he had gained dim satisfaction from being the ugliest. Yet in the North people didn't seem to be measured by the same standards as in the South and being disfigured was apparently not good enough reason to shun a person, he had discovered.

A few raspy coughs and he got on his feet. As dry as his throat might be, unlike many mornings in King's Landing it was not due too much wine the previous evening. His time in the Quiet Isle had cured his craving for drink, although since arriving to Winterfell several moons ago he sometimes wondered if that was a blessing or a curse. There were days when the thought of drowning himself to drink was tempting – and this day was one of those.

 _She is to wed today._

With a sigh he went to a wash basin in the corner of the room. Cold water splashed through his fingers and trickled down his face, leaving cool streaks in its wake. An act that was meant to refresh and make him more awake worked against him this very day; what he really wanted was to go back to bed and sleep through all that lied ahead.

 _What of it, dog?_

Yes, the long-awaited wedding between Lady Sansa Stark and Ser Jaime Lannister was to take place that day after a long betrothal and weeks of planning. Nobody knew for sure if it was a love match or just a sensible joining of two powerful houses, the Lannister kingly house to the royalty of the North. The groom hadn't exactly been handed his bride on a plate but he had had to work for it; his role in returning Lady Stark to the North had been one of the reasons why his brother had stepped aside as graciously as his stumpy legs had allowed. Tyrion Lannister had declared in front of the Great Septon himself that their marriage had never been consummated and thus was not true before men or gods.

There had been many raised eyebrows at that but Sandor had almost choked to his drink when he had first heard of it. The Imp had left his wife untouched, had anyone ever heard of such thing? A fair maiden like Sansa? Nonetheless, Sansa had backed up his testimony and so it was that with no fuss the most eligible maiden in the Seven Kingdoms had been handed from one brother to another. Sansa hadn't objected, and why would she? A fair-looking capable knight to replace a misshapen cur?

He didn't grudge her getting her handsome knight in the end, after all. He truly didn't. He swore to himself he didn't.

Sandor rubbed his face with still wet hands, feeling ridges of a deep frown on his forehead. He didn't really have anything against Jaime who was one of the better Lannisters and as close to a friend he might have. Being young King Tommen's 'uncle' – at that Sandor snorted – Jaime was in a position to do much good for the North. Aye, Sansa could have done worse.

Besides, House Stark needed a firm hand to guide it through the aftermaths of the recent wars. Not even the little wolf's recent return had changed it, because the long-lost real lord of Winterfell Rickon Stark was still a long way away from being of age and taking up his lordship in truth.

After drying his face Sandor dressed methodically as was his habit; simple woollen breeches, undershirt, tunic in Stark colours. It had felt strange at first to dress in normal clothes after having become accustomed to brown-and-dun robes of the brothers of the Seven, but it was just one of the physical manifestations of the change in his circumstances and he accepted it without a second thought.

 _She is to wed the Kingslayer._

Sandor had suspected something of a kind since the day he had seen the two of them sitting side by side in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Despite being unsure of how well he would be received in the ancestral halls of House Stark, he had stubbornly presented himself as had been his intention since leaving the brothers of the Faith behind him.

Why had he come, leaving the comfortable though monotonous life in the Quiet Isle behind him? Hells if he knew himself. The rumours had had it that House Stark was rising again, its eldest daughter having returned to the North. Why that saw him leaving the only peace he had ever had in his life had probably made some sense to him at the time.

Probably still did - he wasn't quite sure.

* * *

 _The little bird had gasped as if she had seen a ghost when Sandor had walked into the Great Hall that cold winter's day. He had been weary, he had been on his guard, he had been tense as a bowstring for reasons he couldn't have articulated had he tried. Something had driven him through snow and sleet on his faithful horse, and being so close to his goal his palms had sweated and rare uncertainty had overtaken him. Would she order his arrest on the spot? Would she send him away with polite but cold words?_

 _Would she hate him?_

 _As it was, Jaime had taken care of most of the talking, sitting on a high seat next to her as if being the lord of the keep already – and that had been as good proof as any about how things stood between them. Sansa hadn't said much but had gotten exceedingly pale as Sandor had responded to Jaime's questions while stealing looks in her direction. He still remembered it as if it had been yesterday; her face colourless and yet so beautiful, more beautiful than he had imagined in his lonely cot when he had allowed his thoughts to venture in such dangerous territories. Eventually she had weakly excused herself after giving her consent for Jaime to take Sandor into the service of Winterfell and had retreated to her rooms in the flurry of wide skirts, almost running._

Always knew she wouldn't be happy to see me again, _Sandor had thought darkly._

 _As he had settled down and learned to know his way around the keep he had observed her often, unexpectedly appearing in the training yards, in the guards' hall or in the armoury when he least expected it. She was the lady of the keep and probably had good reasons to visit those places, but it unnerved Sandor to see her, day after day. She was pleasing to look at – her face had lost its youthful roundness but her body had obtained curves of a woman, and fear that had clouded her eyes before had left her._

 _And yet, after seeing her with Jaime – hells, he wasn't sure what he had expected! – Sandor had struggled with emotions he couldn't explain to himself. Disappointment, guilt, anger, humiliation. None of it had made any sense but he was not a man used to analyse his feelings and so he had avoided her and never approached her even if she stood there all alone, watching him as if expecting him to say something._

 _Only once had he spoken to her, knowing what he must do and what was right, and had told her about his travels with the little she-wolf. She had pressed him for every little detail and made him tell everything over and over again, drinking his words eagerly, gratefully. In the end Sandor had declared that he had nothing more to share as it would have been dishonest to pretend that he had been any kind of saviour for the little brat, and had almost ran away._

 _For some time more she had continued her attendance at odd places and times where he could see her, but he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge her presence._

 _And after a while she didn't come around anymore._

 _At first it had worked for Sandor and his time had been consumed in finding his place in the new order of the North. Tall men from the Vale, dark wildlings from beyond the Wall, swarthy warriors from what was left from the troops that had marched South with Lord Eddard – all brought together by the last of the Starks. Many had been suspicious of him and his motives but over time his unassuming manners and hard work had allayed most of them, judging from the gradual thawing of the men-at-arms with whom he spent his days as one of new men of Winterfell. That, and the word of Lady Sansa and the signs of trust Jaime bestowed on him._

 _Everything should have been fine; finally he was doing what he had been trained to do all his life, finally he was free of whims of egotistical sadistic little bastard, finally he had a place where he felt he fitted better than in the holy island of the religion that still rang hollow to him. Nonetheless, over time what had been left unsaid between him and the woman he had followed – whether Sandor admitted that to himself or not - churned his innards every time when he had a glimpse of her; that and the way they had parted. That terrible night when the whole world was in fire, his dagger on the girl's throat, his body pinning her down._

 _For a man who had lived his life as he had, full of dark deeds, why_ this _one had stayed in his mind? What was wrong with him?_

 _And yet, of all the mixed feelings guilt was the one that niggled him the most and finally, after weeks of increasing disquiet, Sandor had sought her out one day in the restored glass gardens and spoken his mind. Not apologising, as he wouldn't have known how to do it if he tried, but only telling her that he knew well how cruel he had been to her then and that he understood if she rather saw the back of him, no matter what the Kingslayer thought of it._

 _Sandor still remembered how time had slowed down and his heart had pumped loud in his chest when he had waited for her response. Sansa had been examining new shoots emerging from potted earth and had been playing with bright green tendrils of some plant or another with her slender fingers, taking her time before responding to Sandor's gruff speech._

 _Finally she had looked at him solemnly and answered softly that she harboured no ill feelings towards him, and that she had moved on from the ruin of what had been before and he too should think no further of the past._

 _"My thoughts of you have never been harsh," she had said and offered him her hand, dirt still stuck under her fingernails. Sandor had accepted it and held it awkwardly in his big palm._ Her thoughts of me? _The notion that he had ever been on her mind had felt strange and that evening he had allowed himself to wonder when that could have been. The little bird thinking of a mongrel like him?_

 _Later Sandor had concluded that sometimes the need to forgive was as powerful as the need to be forgiven. That Sansa had granted him an absolution had quieted the storm in his head and he hoped that it had helped her too._

* * *

The training grounds that morning were busier than usually, wedding guests and their entourages seemingly keen to get some exercise before the festivities of the evening. Horses neighed, men shouted and servants stumbled about trying to do their duties. Winterfell had been restored almost to its previous grandeur, only scattered ruins and cobblestones here and there left as visible scars of earlier battles, and it was fully prepared to host the crowds a grand wedding like this called forward.

Sandor spotted Jaime in the middle of a large group where talk was lively and mood jovial, men shouting their advice to the bridegroom about how he should preserve his strength for the evening and not waste it in swordplay. Jaime basked in it, laughing and giving as good as he got. It was one of those rare days when everyone seemed to be in a good mood and the weather complied as well, sun shining from a clear blue sky uplifting already festive tempers even more. Sandor glared around him and all the cheerful people, and dwelled as he was in his dark mood, felt a complete outsider.

 _What the fuck is matter with me?_

Nonetheless, when Jaime's second-in-command arrived the groom's tune suddenly changed and he hushed those who still tried to jape about his rampant manhood with a sharp gesture.

Sandor glanced at the warrior maid Brienne of Tarth, whom he had learned to respect as a capable warrior after getting over his initial surprise at the sight of her. He knew that she had grown a thick hide spending her days with men as she did, coordinating the defences of Winterfell by Jaime's side. Bawdy talk didn't usually bother her although she never participated in it herself. This time, however, she appeared uncomfortable, glancing at the men under her brow with a riled expression.

Quite unexpectedly Sandor felt satisfaction of having met possibly the only other person in Winterfell not infected with the ridiculous high humour.

Sandor made a quick work of his opponent of the morning, a knight from White Harbor. The exercise was a child's play for him and after disarming the man three times in a row and splintering his wooden sword in the process he got bored. His old trade was still deeply embedded into memory of his muscles and it had taken him no time to get back to his old fighting fitness after years spent digging graves and in meditation. He loved the feeling of exhaustion burning his arms and thighs and the satisfaction gained from successful manoeuvring aimed at finishing his opponent, even if it only meant submission in the face of bruising by a blunted practice sword. What he didn't miss was the taste of kill or the sight of life leaving eyes of a fallen foe. No, he had done his fair share of killing and desired no more of it.

No, all he wanted was… well, he wasn't actually sure what he wanted.

Grunting Sandor waved the man away and wandered between the other sparring grounds, each separated with a temporary rope fence, to see how other pairs were faring. Maybe he could learn a trick or two from the faraway travellers - one never knew.

In one of the prominent spots he saw Jaime fighting with Brienne, sword against sword, darting around the sandy pit, eyeing each other's weak spots and lunging at them. Their fight was like a dance; a series of orchestrated movements by two opponents who were equally matched and who knew each other too well. Fluid motion and unexpected grace in the midst of crude slashing and ungainly lumbering. Rarely was it possible to see such elegance in sword fighting as when Jaime and Brienne went head-to-head, and Sandor noticed that he was not the only one who had stopped to admire their skills.

Then one of Brienne's attacks hit home and she succeeded in striking Jaime in the thigh. As they used only blunted practice swords no blood was drawn but a voice from the crowd jeered nonetheless. "Careful there, commander, not too close to the wedding tackle! You don't want to be satisfying your lady wife tonight only with your golden hand, do you!"

The jest was crude, even vulgar, but nothing that couldn't be expected in the company of soldiers. Yet Sandor saw Brienne stopping in her tracks, just for a fraction of a second, but that was enough for Jaime to get his counterstroke in and whack her between the shoulder blades. The hit didn't appear overly harsh, but Brienne recoiled and dropped her sword. The crowd jeered and instead of getting her weapon back and mounting a counterattack, the lady warrior mumbled something about yielding and hastened towards the armoury. Her face was flushed and distorted and her shoulders slumped and for a moment Sandor wondered if she had hurt herself for true. Yet Jaime's strike had been no worse than she had received before – it didn't make any sense that she would yield so easily. If Sandor had learned anything about the wench it was that she was as stubborn as a mule and as persistent – many bruises and nicks in his own hide had taught him that in a hard way.

Nobody else seemed to pay heed to the improbability of the outcome except for Jaime who stood still, tapping his sword steadily against his thigh and staring at where Brienne had disappeared in deep contemplation.

Years had treated the Kingslayer kindly, only creases in the corners of his eyes showing that he was not a spring lamb anymore but a man of mature age. His confidence and arrogance somewhat subdued he was a rare example of one who had emerged from the depths of the War of the Five Kings better man as when had entered it. Still devilishly handsome with a smoothly shaven face, golden hair and piercing green eyes, it was however not his looks that commanded attention but the air of authority he exuded. Sandor himself was immune to it, but sometimes he thought bitterly how it was no wonder that Lady Sansa had so readily agreed to the betrothal. Why wouldn't she? A handsome knight, member of a noble house, redeemed by his actions after the war. Any maiden would be fool not to want him for a groom – and Sansa Stark was not a fool.

It would have been easier for Sandor if he could have detested the Kingslayer – but he had always treated Sandor fairly and as much as Sandor hated the thought of him being the one to marry Sansa, he still couldn't truly grudge the man his good fortune.

 _Almost_.

While waiting for the crowd to disperse so he could have a few words with the commander, Sandor eventually saw Brienne the Blue returning only after most of the men had already disappeared to their various duties. She didn't stop but strode hastily by – she must have been more occupied than usual not to acknowledge Sandor's presence. The two warriors were in amicable terms if not exactly bosom buddies, so he would have expected at least a nod, but that was clearly not forthcoming.

Finally Sandor approached Jaime. Having succumbed to his exhortations one evening after too many flagons of wine he had agreed – foolishly – to oversee the wedding procession, weaving its way from the re-built Lady Catelyn's Sept to the Great Hall. At the time it had seemed just a small task focussed more on logistics of controlling the crowds than anything else, but later Sandor had realised the irony of his task. _To help Lady Sansa Stark tie herself to another man._ And yet…

What it was to him? _Nothing._ Why would the thought make him cringe? _No sense in it at all._

"What was that about? Didn't think you hit her too hard."

Jaime was still staring in the direction where Brienne had disappeared. "I wish I knew. I only tapped her lightly – I have seen the wench putting up with much worse with no ill effect."

"Women. Who knows?"

Jaime raised his eyebrow. "Not many things usually attributed to women apply to her, as you well know."

"Mayhap not." Sandor wasn't really interested in the vagaries of women, even one as formidable as Brienne.

"I hope she will be well enough to attend tonight." Brienne's place was in the honour guard with Sandor, two of the tallest warriors assigned to lead the procession.

"Talking of which, how do you want to…"

They went through the arrangements for a while, after which Jaime took his leave, scooping something from the ground as he went; something looking like a piece of cloth. Thinking nothing of it – who was he to care about the quirks of the Kingslayer? - Sandor went to deposit his broken sword on a rack next to a small woodsmith's shack. There, on a bench leaning against the wall sat the tall figure of Brienne, still as a statue, looking at Jaime's retreating back until he disappeared from sight. Even then she kept on staring at the spot, finally sighing so heavily that her heavily muscled shoulders heaved, before wearily getting up and starting to walk towards the bath-house.

Sandor saw all this and wondered. He was mildly curious about the unusual behaviour of otherwise so sensible maid, but concluding that it was not his business he shrug his shoulders and started towards his own room for a change of attire. Never one for fineries, this day however was an exception. Without intending to, he had found himself playing a much bigger role in the proceedings than he would have preferred, and his appearance had to fit the role. That meant new clothes and changing into them after practice, whether he wanted or not.

However, his progress was distracted by the swarm of men gathered around one of the yards, and edging closer he recognised the Knight of Flowers sparring with one of the youths from Winterfell's garrison. Having recovered from his wounds from the siege of Dragonstone Loras Tyrell had resumed his position as the supreme fighter of the realm. His good looks had been lost to the flames for ever but it didn't seem to bother him. The brash, vain youth had given way to a serious man even Sandor could respect, especially his skills with a sword.

His opponent was a youth never likely to be acknowledged for his looks; short, swarthy, close-set eyes and a grin lacking several teeth – but Yrin hailed from the Gift and possessed abundance of the brute cunning and skill of the wildlings. It seemed to be enough to match the sword skills of his veneered adversary, and so he had persisted in the fight surprisingly well so far.

The crowd shouted its support for the fighters and betting was already in full swing. Men hollered and offered coppers, stags and even dragons to back the best knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, and by the time Sandor arrived, the pot had already grown to a significant size. He stopped for a moment to observe and just then the wildling surprised everyone with one of his bold movements and the unthinkable happened: his opponent fell and lost his sword. Hushed silence fell upon the crowd and men looked at each other, still hardly believing that an unknown boy could do what the most experienced warriors had rarely succeeded in. Loras looked every bit stunned as everyone else but gathered his dignity soon enough, graciously slapping the winner at the back and congratulating him for a worthy fight.

Curiously, when the winner of the betting was sought out it was discovered that nobody actually had dared to bet against the seemingly inevitable conclusion, and the money from the pot was grudgingly returned to its owners. Sandor continued his trip sneering, amused by the notion that the Northerners could still show a thing or two to the Southerners.

When he passed the Great Hall, the solitary form of Jaime sitting in a corner staring at something in his hands caught his eye. Another glance told him it to be the cloth he had picked from the ground. The commander's bearing did not invite company, his back turned against the door, so despite feeling more than ready for a flagon of ale despite the early hour, Sandor let him be and went straight to his room.

His dark mood followed him.

* * *

At the midday meal Jaime approached Sandor's table and sat down next to him. The garrison guard seated next to them shifted along the bench, bowing to the man whom everyone saw as the immediate lord consort of the North.

"Sandor, may I ask you one more favour?"

Sandor grunted non-committedly, chewing a piece of coarse rye bread, waiting for Jaime to continue.

"Lady Sansa is planning to go to the Godswood to pray before the heart tree before the festivities; something about honouring the old gods for the last time as an unmarried maiden." Jaime scanned the big hall teeming with people, furrowing his brow. "She assures me she is perfectly safe alone, but I would feel better if someone was with her. With all these visitors around…it would ease my mind to know she is well protected. Could you go with her?"

"Why me? Why not one of the household guards?" Sandor was taken aback. He had never served the lady of the keep in such manner – why now? He was not a sworn shield nor one of the trusted men-at-arms in the inner circles of the Stark household. As a matter of fact, he had exchanged hardly more than a few sentences with her since… ever since the meeting in the glass gardens when she had released him from his burden.

 _When she had laid her hand on his, dirt under her fingernails._

The memory of it made him squirm – the dark weight he had carried around for years had been so embedded in him that only when she had lifted it had he realised how much it had weighed him down. And she had done it with a few chosen words, a smile, a touch.

A fool he had been, to be so affected by a maid. A fool he was still.

"All the other men are busy – besides, she likes her privacy and I know that you can blend into the shadows like a cat - or should I say a dog? A skill quite surprising for a big man like you." Jaime flashed his teeth in a wide grin. "All I ask is for you to just follow her from a discreet distance and let her have her moment with the gods. I doubt there is any real danger, but still, I would prefer to be cautious."

Sandor could see the sense on what he said. A big event like this brought with it all kinds of unscrupulous characters and many had started festivities already days ago, strongwine and mead flowing freely in some quarters. Even without ill intent it was not right for a young maiden to be accosted by men in their cups. And still… Sandor tried to think of a polite way to decline the request. Not now, not this very day, surely there was someone else Jaime could trust? Jaime stared at him expectantly and Sandor knew that there was no way out of it.

"Aye, I'll do it. Does she know you are asking this of me? Don't want to go frightening her."

"I will let her know. I know she will not object; she thinks highly of you, and that's another reason for my request. I wouldn't want just any man following her around." With that Jaime got up and left, clapping Sandor on the shoulder in passing.

Sandor stared after him deep in thought. _Thinks highly of me?_ Why the little bird would have said such a thing to the Kingslayer, baffled him. Courteous she was still, always a smile or a few nice words to those around her, but to compliment a man who had done so much evil and hadn't lifted a finger to help her when she had needed it the most… No, it must have been just a turn of phrase Jaime had used. Snorting, he finished his meal and got up to take care of the task so unexpectedly thrown at his lap.

* * *

Sandor almost collided with the girl he knew to be Sansa's lady's maid at the door leading to the family's personal quarters. Ignoring the girl's curious look he ducked under the low doorway and made his way to her lady's door. It was open but he knocked on it nonetheless; once, twice, thrice, the old wood pleasantly worn and smooth under his knuckles.

It was not the first time he was there; he had come to her door once or twice before, always in the Kingslayer's company. Then he had felt calm, slinking to the background as had been his position all those years in the Lannister service, not expecting to be noticed or spoken to. Lady Sansa had broken the form though, courteously enquiring after his wellbeing and how he liked the North. Still, Jaime's presence had meant that all that had been required from him had been some muttered platitudes before withdrawing to himself again.

In the background, in the shadows – as he had lived his life and was like to do until the end of his days.

This time there was no Kingslayer, no maid – only the two of them. Just the thought of it made Sandor's palms sweat and he wished there was a way out of it. After receiving his absolution from her lips he had thought his peace of mind would return to him – but quite the opposite had happened. The more he had seen of her, gliding through the keep, nibbling at her meals in the Great Hall, walking in the parapets among her people, the more difficult he had found to look away. And yet look away he must.

So he had done the only thing he could think of – he had continued to make it his matter to avoid her as much as he could. It had proved to be surprisingly easy in such a busy household, as only at meal times he was forced into her presence, and even then it was possible to stay in one of the lower tables and ignore the goings-on in the high table.

Sandor was distracted from his musings by the sound of light steps approaching the door. Sansa peeked through the opening, a flash of red hair and crimson cheeks.

"Here I am. Commander's orders," Sandor grunted, hoping that Jaime had kept his word and informed her about who had been assigned as her escort.

"Yes. I knew you were coming. I…" She looked out of breath and her hands were shaking and Sandor wondered why. "I'll be ready in a moment."

True to her word she soon stepped into the corridor pulling a warm green cloak across her shoulders.

"Godswood, is it?" _Of course it is Godswood you dimwit!_ Hoping he would have kept his mouth shut Sandor fell on a step behind her.

"Yes, Godswood, if it please you." Sansa glanced around her shoulder and once again there was something furtive in her behaviour. Had the Kingslayer been wrong after all about Sansa's level of confidence when it came to his company? Mayhap she didn't want an old dog reminding her of the bad old days lumbering behind her on a day that was supposed to be every maiden's dream?

The way down the corridor and across the yard seemed to take an eternity and Sandor took good care to make sure that he stayed at least a few paces behind his charge at all times – as was prudent for a guard escorting his lady. It was made easier by the fact that Sansa didn't seem to expect conversation, which was fine with him.

Silence continued during their journey to the Godswood. It was a clear, crisp day and the air was rich with smells of decomposing leaves and open earth, and the only sounds around them were hushed calls of an occasional bird or rustling of a squirrel scurrying up a tree trunk. After the mayhem in the keep Sandor felt the tranquillity of the ancient place of worship sooth him and he breathed in deeply and steadily, focussing on the rhythm of it and aligning it with the pace of his long strides.

Every now and then Sandor noticed Sansa giving him a sideways look, and once he was sure she was going to say something – but at the last minute she closed her mouth and looked away. For some reason she looked agitated and Sandor felt a stir of frustration. Jaime should have never asked him this, or he should have never agreed. It was clear the girl wanted nothing to do with him.

At the heart tree Sandor left a wide space between them when Sansa sank onto the ground in front of the ancient weirwood and stayed that way for a long time. She didn't pray out loud as that was not the Northern way, nor did she prostrate herself in front of the tree; she only sat there, eyes closed, her arms by her side, hands flattened against the undergrowth of the forest floor.

Not having anything else to do while waiting Sandor feasted his eyes on her knowing the opportunity to be rare and unlikely to occur again. She was truly an image of a forest goddess; auburn hair trailing down her back, her body in graceful posture. The dress she wore was a simple blue gown of the northern style and bore no adornments, and he thought her beautiful. Her lips trembled and opened as if in anticipation of words and yet nothing came out – whatever her communication with the old gods was, she obviously thought it better left unsaid.

And then Sandor felt something; a tremor, a shudder, a vibration in the air.

He looked around, fully alert, but saw nothing but the old forest, its peace undisturbed. Sansa had not moved but sat still, her features serene and unperturbed. Whatever the disturbance had been – _if_ there had been any - was gone and slowly the tension left Sandor's body. He felt a bit foolish, actually – he must have only imagined it, being spooked by nothing.

The presence of the old gods, mayhap.

After a long time, during which Sandor resumed his guarding stance, Sansa got up and brushed her skirts. Whatever she had prayed seemed to have eased her mind as she was more composed and even smiled at him faintly when Sandor pushed some low-hanging branches aside to let her pass. They returned to the keep as they had left, in silence, but after escorting Sansa to her door and turning to leave Sandor was stopped by her light touch.

"You have my thanks; you were very kind to do this, Sandor," she said, her hand light as a feather on his sleeve. Sandor felt a jolt from that touch – or maybe it was the way his name sounded when she said it, softly, no hostility evident in her tone.

Then she removed her hand, stepped into her room and was gone. And the spark died down, leaving only a cold trail in its wake. The thought of her wearing the Kingslayer's cloak that night and stepping into his bed twisted somewhere deep in Sandor's guts, but he tried to shut it out of his mind.

 _Not my business._

He turned and walked away.

* * *

The ceremony in the Winterfell Sept was solemn and dignified. Even though everyone knew Lady Sansa to have transferred her allegiance back to the religion of her forefathers, the wedding was not witnessed by the old gods. It was in front of the Seven the couple exchanged their vows, their voices steady and unwavering.

Sandor followed the proceedings from his place in the honour guard, bile rising in his throat at the sight of the Kingslayer's hands clasping his cloak around Sansa's shoulders. Brienne of Tarth stood opposite him, a glum look on her face. She was not a beauty by any definition, her manly features made even less attractive by the horrible scar across her cheek, but on a good day she had softness about her which combined with the sapphire blue of her eyes reminded a casual observer that she was indeed a maid, and a young one still. None of that was visible now though, a deep frown hardening her face into a cold, hard mask.

And yet, as they turned around to make way for the newlyweds Sandor saw her swipe a tear from the corner of her eye. It surprised him; so it seemed that even warrior maids were not immune to womanly emotions when it came to weddings?

The wedding feast itself was all it had been promised to be; good food, good drink and plenty of it, musicians plucking, drumming and blowing their instruments and convivial feeling encasing the whole hall and its inhabitants. Sandor sat in his allotted seat and observed the festivities, glancing at the dais every now and then. Jaime appeared cheerful enough, but his lady was quiet, staring at her lap and hardly touching her food. She cut a fine figure in her magnificent new dress, her hair piled high on top of her head in a complicated structure with silken threads and flowers weaved into it. Sandor tried to look away, well-practiced in it as he was, but this night of all nights he found that even his formidable willpower was not enough. Despite her splendid appearance and all the fineries decorating her he found that the simple maid in the woods was more to his liking.

 _As if it matters what I like,_ Sandor sighed and directed his attention back to his meal.

* * *

Despite the revelries trepidation started to pool in Sandor's belly as the evening progressed. He knew what lay ahead; a ceremony as old as time but one he didn't really want to see.

"Bedding, bedding, bedding!" the crowd started to chant banging on tables, laughing and jesting. Sandor saw Sansa looking around with the expression of a forest animal caught in torchlight before pursing her lips together in a thin line and lifting her head defiantly. Tradition called for her to submit to it and she was, if anything, mindful of the customs of the North. It was bad enough for her to wed a Southron in front of the Seven so she was not going to throw all conventions out the window, Jaime had informed Sandor beforehand. They both knew that ambitions of the Northern lords had suffered badly from Sansa's choice and that she had worked tirelessly ever since to patch up any friction.

The most daring of the young knights rushed to lift her onto a seat formed by their crossed hands and started to carry her across the hall, stopping every now and then to allow a piece of cloth to be grasped or an intricate twist of the coiled hair released.

Sandor clenched his fists and stayed on the bench, glancing daggers towards those who dared to touch Sansa. There went her slipper, there the ribbons from her hair. A laughing squire dared to unbutton her dress from the back and it started to fall down, revealing a lacy shift and a perfect curve of a rounded shoulder. Sansa struggled to stay upright on her moving seat but smiled determinedly, clearly prepared to endure the ordeal in good cheer.

 _A fighter, that's what she always was._

The rowdy procession entered the corridor leading to the wedding chamber and Sandor couldn't help himself any longer – he jumped up and followed it. Jaime was not there to protect the dignity of his bride and judging from the increasingly boisterous behaviour of the crowd there was better to be _someone_ there for her.

The groom was likewise being escorted out of the hall in a parade of giggling and bawdy women. Tongues had been wagging for weeks among the women of the keep, keen to snatch a peek at the handsome Kingslayer's physique under the disguise of wedding revelries. Sandor saw Brienne among them and despite her sullen looks she didn't seem to be completely immune to the golden lion's charms, side-eyeing Jaime's bare upper torso as the women guided him along. The lion was herded between them as if he was a steer being led to slaughter; a steer that didn't seem to mind his fate as he laughed out loud even as he tried to avoid too eager hands.

A sound of fabric tearing alerted Sandor and before anyone else had time to react, he pushed himself next to Sansa whose shift had been torn. A mishap or not, it didn't matter, when her whole back had been revealed to all and sundry, pale and fragile in the flickering light of torches lining the walkway. A memory from another time and another place flicked through his mind and he knew that Sansa must have felt it too.

And he had been present on both of those occasions. Last time he had nothing, but now…

"That's enough. Get your filthy hands off her or I shall cut them off and feed them to the dogs, throw them like bones I will!" Sandor's blood boiled and he pushed the revellers aside scooping Sansa into his arms and carried her away. The other men knew that they had stepped across the line and let them go, trailing behind to joke and laugh but not attempting to catch up.

Sandor's long strides took the two of them towards the bridal chamber. At first Sansa threw her head around and gave a faint struggle but glancing up and recognising her saviour's determined face she quietened and settled in his arms, still tense. Shoulders hunched and arms crossed across her chest in a protective gesture she trembled against his chest, like a little bird fallen out of its nest. That the louts had frightened her so soured Sandor's mood and he would have curse had he not thought that to unsettle his precious cargo even more.

Reaching the room, he laid her gently on top of the wide bed already set with fine linen and lace, flowers sprinkled on top of the covers. He had hardly registered her weight when he had carried her but when it was taken away his arms felt suddenly unbearably empty.

Sansa stared at him wordlessly and instead of moving away from him, as Sandor tried to get up she stopped him by placing her hand on his arm. He paused, watching her as she rested her head against the pillow, her hair fanned around her as rays of sun. Fire of many candles glinted in her curls brandishing them dark copper, different to her usual light auburn. They looked so soft, her face so young and vulnerable. That the Kingslayer should have her soon… Sandor cursed silently.

 _Don't think of it. Never think of it._

"Thank you," she whispered breathlessly but didn't let go. Sandor could have moved any time he wished but it was not her strength that checked him, but her eyes. They were searching his, flicking between them, not turning away. Was it sadness he saw in them? How could that be? The weight of her scrutiny was almost unbearable and again Sandor was reminded of King's Landing. Then he had desired above anything else for her to look at him like that – just look, with no fear or disgust in her eyes.

And now the directness he had not seen before captured him and didn't let go. They stayed like that, transfixed in each other's gaze, until noises from the corridor got nearer and Jaime bolted in, banging the door shut behind him and panting from the effort of trying to outrun his assailants.

"Finally! I swear I thought some of those ladies were ready to take me right then and there in the corridor." He stopped, only now truly noticing the scene before him. "Sandor, thank you for seeing my bride here in one piece. I heard about the commotion."

He moved closer, dressed just in his breeches with undone laces that had severely suffered under the women's onslaught. Sandor stood up, feeling stupid for lingering where he clearly was not welcome. He didn't need Jaime's glance towards Sansa to tell him that he was a third wheel in a wedding chamber with newlyweds. Instead of eagerness he would have expected Jaime's face was suddenly shrouded in an odd melancholy and he went to the table in the back of the room and poured himself a goblet of wine.

"Some wine?"

Sandor shook his head in refusal and retreated towards the exit, leaving Jaime with the goblet in his hand. As he stepped out to the corridor he took one last look towards the slowly closing door. Jaime was still standing, shoulders hunched, back to his bride, and Sansa's head was still turned in his direction rather than that of her lord husband. He felt her eyes burning like small flames into his back as he turned away and shut the door firmly behind him.

He might have said no to Jaime's offer, but now all he wanted was to drink himself into a stupor to wipe the image of her big eyes and sad face out of his mind.

 _Dornish red it is._

* * *

When Sandor eventually stumbled into his room hours later, too drunk to walk straight, and fell on his bed like a log, his mission had been well and truly accomplished.


	2. Day Two - Part 1

**Author's Notes:** So this is the new day, which sees Sandor increasingly puzzled as the day progresses... This is not covering the whole day as I want to keep things moving without horrible long breaks in posting, but this will certainly start to reveal little things to Sandor he might not have been aware of before...

* * *

 ** _*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*_**

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

 _Bloody hells! To hell with these wenches, not able to hold on to a bloody thing!_

Thoroughly awaken and irate, he yawned, expecting to feel a dull ache inside his skull and a taste of cat's piss in his mouth. He could still remember well those mornings when he had paid previous night's drunken oblivion with cold sweats and throbbing head - but to his surprise his head was clear and he detected no foul tastes. _How in seven hells is this possible?_ The amount he had drowned after leaving Sansa to her fate was enough to stun a bull, and certainly a man of his size _._

He stretched and raised his head gingerly, and noticing no ill effect rose cautiously to his feet, still feeling surprisingly fresh and rested. Had moderation made him more resistant to ill effects of drink, he wondered while getting dressed, convinced that he was sure to be in the minority. Most of the household was undoubtedly still snoring away the aftermath of the feast, at least those who were not expected in duty.

Sandor was one of those who had a free morning, but after finding himself in unexpectedly good condition he decided that he might as well go to the training yards as usual. He fully expected himself to be the only one there, but it didn't matter. Strawmen were always ready to spar, and maybe he could blot out the memory of previous night by hacking a few of them into thousand pieces. The prospect of venting out his frustrations with violence was alluring and he hastened his steps, keen to get there sooner to hit something, anything.

Once outside he had to blink his eyes at the surprising sight; the keep was buzzing as much if not more than before; hordes of people about and none of them looking worse for wear. Even in the training yard the activity was in full swing, men gathered around… _seven hells, is that Jaime?_ The Kingslayer's blond head bobbed in the middle of a rowdy crowd, jesting and laughing.

For some reason the sight of him there, when by all rights he should still be by the side of his newly wedded lady wife, annoyed Sandor at no end. He didn't really care to think about Jaime and Sansa together, but there was nothing he could do about it and they _were_ wedded and bedded. And the man should have had the decency not to abandon his bride the morning after their wedding for _this_! The little bird deserved better.

Inching closer with sullen determination to say something about it to Jaime, Sandor expected to hear puns about the wedding night, queries of if the groom had been up to it and ribald jokes about how tired he must be - but all the japes he heard were about the night that was still to come. Exhortations for him to save his strength, various ill-advised suggestions about how to make a woman happy, that sort of things. Sandor cocked his head and looked around to see why such sudden interest in the second night when the real deed had already taken place, but smiling faces and winking eyes of the jesters seemed genuine. He frowned - it didn't make any sense.

Catching Jaime's attention for a second he cursed to him, "Bloody Kingslayer, is this the way to treat your bride? Your lady wife is not some poxy whore you can toss aside like a chewed bone when you are done with her, you know. I thought you'd know better."

Jaime looked at him oddly, not the least offended by his words. "My lady? Well, assuming you are talking about my bride, today she indeed shall become my wife. But what are you harping about? The last time I saw her was at the evening meal, and if I remember correctly it was _she_ who left the hall early. I presume that she is getting ready for the big day with her ladies at this moment – and I am sure she would not welcome my presence there even if I wanted to honour her with it."

Sandor stared at him, dumbfounded. What was _he_ harping about? The big day?

Jaime brightened. "As long as you are here, I have a few thoughts about the procession I want to run through with you. I thought that once we leave the sept…" he went on about how he wanted the wedding convoy to be organised, ignoring Sandor's silent incredulity.

After leaving Jaime Sandor walked around the training grounds deep in thought, hardly noticing the buzzing heave of activity all around him. _Has Jaime lost his mind?_ he pondered, trying to fathom why the man had seemingly forgotten all of previous day – the day that was supposed to be one of the biggest in any man's life. Mayhap that was it? Had the shock of it all been too much for him, the man who had never meant to marry at all?

No, that didn't make sense either – nor did it explain the other people, all in high spirit in anticipation of the evening's upcoming festivities.

More for the form's sake than because of any real interest Sandor sparred couple of rounds with the same knight from White Harbour as the day before. Thump of weapon against weapon revitalised him, ingrained memory of years and years of practicing these very same movements taking over and forcing him to clear his mind of all but the task of preventing the man's eager but clumsy attacks. Physicality of it made him feel better although it didn't help him to solve the riddle of morning's experiences, and once again he made a quick work of the knight despite hardly trying.

After leaving the defeated man Sandor wandered around some more, still puzzled about the similarities of the scene in front of him as compared to the previous day, and eventually ended up near the enclosure where Jaime and Brienne were circling each other.

As before, the pure beauty of their well-honed routine impressed him and for a while he forgot his bewilderment while immersed in following the adversaries. Then one of Brienne's attacks hit home and she struck Jaime in the thigh. And as before, a voice from the crowd jeered, "Careful there, commander, not too close to the wedding tackle! You don't want to be satisfying your lady wife tonight only with your golden hand, do you!"

 _What the fuck?_

Sandor shook his head. This was no coincidence; this was something much bigger. He was no bloody greenseer so how _could_ he have foreseen the shout in the middle of Jaime and Brienne's fight – word for word?

Suddenly he couldn't breathe and feeling nauseous withdrew from the crowd and sank against a tree trunk to gather his wits about him. _Bloody hells, it must have been all in my own head after all!_ The day before, all he had thought to have happened - all of it must have been just some strange dream. That was the only thing that could explain the situation. But since when had he been blessed – nay, cursed - with such detailed and vivid foreshadowing dreams?

From the edge of his vision he saw the events unfolding as before; Brienne hastening towards the armoury, then returning in long strides but only to slouch down on the bench next to the woodsmith's shack. Then Jaime leaving, after being detained by one of his men for a few words, and stopping to scoop something from the ground. From his new viewpoint Sandor detected what it was: a hair ribbon belonging to Brienne. Despite her manly ways she kept her hair at shoulder length and tied it back with a simple strip of cloth when donning armour.

* * *

Sandor took in a deep lungful of air, holding it in for a moment before releasing it. _Yes, calm the fuck down. There has to be an explanation._ Taking a closer look at the warrior maid sitting desolate on the rickety bench he noticed that her eyes were buffed and nose red. More than that, the look on her face was full of poorly concealed longing, her big blue eyes blinking while a lonely tear fell silently down her marred cheek. She must have assumed that nobody saw her, not noticing Sandor from behind the tree. For a woman who was usually guarded with her expressions the sight was most extraordinary – Sandor had never seen her in such a state.

Following her gaze he knew where it would lead and was not wrong: in the direction of Jaime's broad, retreating back. _So that's how it is!_

Sandor recalled hearing some castle gossip when he had first arrived about the Kingslayer and the Warrior Maid being more than just companions-in-arms. He had found it hard to believe, so big, ungainly and plain-faced as she was, nothing like Cersei whose hair had been like spun gold and body sensuous enough to entice a septon – not to mention her brash and then rather idiotic brother. Yet the talk had not been only about a casual tryst or an opportunistic tumble, but about something more serious. As unlikely as it sounded, some had whispered how Brienne had even spurned Jaime's advances – as if the golden knight really would have wanted a woman like that! Some had said that she had could not rest before finding Arya Stark as she had promised to Lady Catelyn, and was planning to leave the North as soon as possible - and yet here she was still, almost full year later.

Sandor had believed none of it. Any man who had fucked a beauty like Cersei for years or spent time with a fair maiden like Lady Sansa could surely have no eyes for other women, big and manly or plump and matronly. It simply didn't make any sense. So he had ignored the rumours and thought no more of them ever since. But here, the testimony of his eyes in front of him…

Suddenly he felt like an intruder witnessing the wench's distress, clearly not meant for prying eyes. He shifted on his seating, trying to estimate if he could leave without her noticing. Glancing at her again Sandor felt a new and rare emotion stirring inside him; sympathy. There was nothing as bad as longing after something one could never get – as he knew too well.

 _Hopeless, hopeless._ Monsters' futile longing – that much they had in common.

Rising slowly to his feet he sneaked away, seemingly unnoticed. On his way to the keep – where else would he go? - he saw the crowd and even before he approached it, he knew what it was. And indeed; it was Loras Tyrell fighting against Yrin.

Stopping to better appreciate the surprise move that had defeated the champion before and now, it was only when Sandor left the crowd that it occurred to him that he should have waged for the outcome. A handy purse it would have been, the winnings. He cursed loudly, startling one of the servants passing him by – as long as there where so many things wrong in this godforsaken day, it would have been nice to cash in on one of the few positive things.

Jaime was sitting in the hall and this time, without drawing attention to himself, Sandor stopped to observe him. Now that he knew that the object Jaime was twirling in his hands belonged to Brienne, he was curious. Maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise when he detected a forlorn look on Jaime's face, but still he was taken aback. _Seven hells!_ There must have been some truth in the gossip after all, the Kingslayer feeling something towards the big brute of a woman? But now, when he was about to marry the most beautiful, the most gracious, the most fascinating woman in the realm?

 _Fuck, some people don't deserve what they have_ , Sandor fumed as he walked away.

After a change of clothes and not knowing what else to do, he went out again. While crossing the yard he saw a large figure approaching – a figure of someone who mayhap would be able to help him and tell him what the hell was going on. The man who had seen a lot - and read even more from the books. Sandor made up his mind.

"Maester Samwell. A word, if it please you?"


	3. Day Two - Part 2

**Author's Notes:** Thank you for the few ovely comments I have received - yay! This tale will not be full of adventures and shocking plot points – how could I be when it is mostly about the same things happening over and over again with some differences? The biggest aspect is what Sandor himself thinks, feels and observes, and how he eventually acts, and hence there is going to be rather lot of Sandor introspection… I hope you don't mind!

* * *

Maester Samwell Tarly from Castle Black was as wide as tall with chubby and almost child-like features, but despite his appearance there was much more to him than what first met the eye. In addition to reputedly having slayed a terrible monster beyond the Wall with his own hands, bringing peace to the squabbling Night's Watch and reinstatement of the Lord Commander Snow had been largely his doing, proving there was a sharp brain in that head of his.

Sandor had spent many hours with him since he had arrived to spend time in Winterfell to study the remains of its partially destroyed library, and had found the fat maester to have more common sense than all the other maesters he had known put together. In return, after having gotten over his initial wariness of the infamous Hound, Sam had been fascinated by the tales Sandor could tell from his time in the South, the ways of war and the intrigues of highborn.

"Of course, Clegane, I always have time for you. If you just follow me to my chambers as I have to get these herbs done before they lose their freshness," Sam said, pointing to a bunch of green sprigs in his hands.

In the maester's sparse room Sandor followed while he cut the herbs and stuffed them inside a clear jar filled with a strong smelling liquid. There was something soothing to see an expert at work; for a man of his size he was nimble with his tools of trade, neat rows of glass containers of various sizes and contents standing in testimony of his skills. Finally the work was done and Sam wiped his hands on his robes and turned to Sandor with an enquiring look on his face.

"So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Have you ever heard of an affliction where a man lives the same day again, exactly as the one before?" he spurted without a preamble.

Sam looked askance. "What do you mean? Same day?"

"Aye, the same exact day. Things that happened the day before unfold faithfully the next day as well. The man walks through the day knowing that it has all happened already but those around him live it the first time."

Sam leaned towards him on the low chair he had sunk his bulk in, eyes widened.

"Where have you heard of it? Who has told you of such a thing?"

Sandor hesitated. He wasn't sure if he was ready to tell Sam everything, knowing how outlandish it would sound. He was not ready to be branded mad as yet.

"An old man I met among the visitors. We got talking over a flagon of ale and he told me of a man he knew, to whom that kind of thing happened." He tried to think on his feet and come up with an excuse for his sudden interest in some old fool's babbles. Luckily Sam didn't seem to care about his reasons, keen to get into the bottom of the matter.

"And how was it exactly manifested, did he tell? Did the man himself do things exactly as before or did he have his own free will to change his behaviour?"

Sandor assessed his own actions that morning. He had gone to the training yards, sparred with the knight, witnessed Jaime and Brienne and the aftermath of their encounter just as he had earlier… and here he was now, sitting with the maester. He hadn't done everything precisely as before but had changed his route, his words, his actions.

"I think he said he did do some things differently, so aye, he had free will."

Sam sunk back, deep in thought, drumming his fingers against his knee. Herbs had left green stains in them, blending seamlessly with the ink stains in his thumb and his forefinger. He took his time and Sandor shifted on his seat, glanced at the window and the shadows on the opposite wall and wondered if he would miss Jaime on his way to ask him the favour for Sansa – if indeed that too was supposed to happen.

"Do you think it was only too much drink, or a knock in the head? The poor bastard might have just been fantasising the whole thing, so deep in his cups that he didn't know what was real and what was dream?" Sandor thought of the skins of strongwine he had consumed after the bedding ceremony. Mayhap he was not really there even as he spoke – mayhap all this was just a drunken dream confusing and mixing up events of the past in his head?

Sam frowned and started slowly. "I have never witnessed drink causing such thing, and I have heard my share of tales men tell to each other over evening fires. What you tell me surely sounds peculiar and I am not aware of it ever happening to anyone I know." Seeing Sandor's disappointed face he hastened to add, "But I think I might have read about it in a book."

He continued, rubbing his chin contemplatively. "There was this one book, very old it was, in the library of Castle Black. It told a story of one of the ancient Kings in the North, his campaigns and quarrels with his neighbours. The usual things." Sheepish smile indicated that he didn't put much store on skirmishes of the high lords.

"At the back of the book was a hand-written entry, clearly added into it afterwards. The writing was not very refined but I was curious and read it – and it told a strange story."

Sandor straightened in his seat, leaning forward impatiently. "What kind of a story?"

"I gathered that it was written by the lady wife of this particular king, regaling a tale that I thought was surely just a figment of her imagination, blabberings of a feeble mind. Now I wonder…"

"Go on man, let's have it then!"

"Well, to put a long story short, she wrote that she had prayed in the Godswood for the safety of her husband and their two adult sons in the face of rebellion of one of their bannermen. The fight was nonetheless unavoidable and so she saw them on their way in the morning - and after a day that didn't go well for the king, received all three of them lifeless on a litter in the evening."

Sandor nodded, not seeing what this tale of an ancient queen had to do with his woes. After a pause that might have been intended as dramatic, Sam went on.

"She wrote of the sorrow that drove her nearly mad, and the evening wailing for her lost ones. And of the morning that saw her waking up by the side of her husband – just as the day before."

Sandor perked up. Now this was something!

"She indeed thought herself gone mad as the day progressed as one before. She tried to talk the king out of the battle but being a man and a king he of course heard none of it. And so she saw them riding out of the gate once again – and returning as corpses."

"And then? Maybe the woman _was_ mad, or a greenseer?"

"No, as then the story gets really interesting. You see, she woke up the next day as before, ahead of the battle, her husband and sons hale and hearty. By then she had figured she had to do something about it, and goes on describing various ways she tried to prevent the calamity. She tried to talk to her husband, telling what she had experienced, but that didn't go down too well. The King thought she had lost her mind and had her confined in her rooms while he rode away – to his death." Sam got up and walked energetically back and forth the breadth of the room, waving his hands. He was clearly enjoying the rare opportunity to share his book knowledge with an interested audience.

"Then she tried to slip a harmless sleeping potion to the king's drink, reasoning that it would prevent him riding away – but it was not enough and the king only got drowsy and went ahead regardless. And every day she had to see to her loved ones coming back dead."

Sam stopped. "I don't know how she could take it, day after day." Then he shivered but shrugged it off, moving on. Sandor shivered too; not that he had ever faced the death of a loved one, but the image of the little bird's lifeless body resting on a funeral bier came to him and it hit him like a punch in a stomach.

"Eventually she concocted a plan to send a message directly to the bannerman in question and plead him to reason with the king. She didn't go into the details what the quarrel was all about, but we all know that sometimes it is over nothing and less that high lords go to war." It was cynicism Sandor shared and the two men exchanged a look of mutual agreement.

"And what followed then?" Sandor encouraged the storyteller. That the maester would never earn his living as a wandering wordsmith was obvious, but then again, he was not there for the entertainment value but for finding something that could explain his predicament.

"The man heard her, sent an envoy to the king and the parties reached an agreement over a table rather than over a battlefield. And the next morning the queen woke up next to a probably snoring and terribly sore-headed husband who had downed too many celebratory drinks the night before."

"You mean that her life went on eventually?"

"Yes, so it seems. She gifted the king with two more babes and by all accounts was a dutiful and most sensible queen until the end of her days. When exactly did she wrote about her experience into that book I can't say, but it must have been quite some time after the events. She was sure it was the result of her devotion to the old gods – she even called it _The Gods' Will."_

Sounds of the keep drifted around them; hurried steps on stone floors, shouts and laughs, creaking of large barrels being rolled through the corridors. Sandor heard none of them, engrossed in the tale Sam had just told. Was it just a wild yarn someone had concocted - this queen, mayhap she _was_ a madwoman? The story was impossible. Men who died in a battle certainly did not wake up the next morning.

Sandor shook his head. No, this could not be the explanation. Besides, even if had there been some truth in the tale, why him? He most certainly had not prayed for the old gods for anything – not because his time in the Quiet Isle would have made him a devotee of the Seven, but simply because it was not in him to plead anyone for anything.

So he stood up and thanked the maester who seemed disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm.

"I would be keen to talk to this man myself, if you could only ask him to come and see me," Sam exhorted Sandor.

"May not be possible, I believe he has already left the keep. He was here only…to deliver some supplies for the wedding." Sandor extracted himself skilfully, bid goodbye to the good maester and left to seek answers elsewhere.

The maester's story could not solve the riddle, he concluded, so mayhap all this was after all just an unusually poor result of too much drink, from which he would suddenly wake up in his own bed?

* * *

Sandor sat in the Great Hall over a flagon of beer, still brooding over Maester Samwell's words, when Jaime sank down next to him. He agreed to Jaime's proposal without a question. Little bird needed protection; he would do it. He might as well see how far this strange existence extended.

* * *

As before, they walked to the Godswood in silence. Sandor couldn't help studying his charge more than was probably proper for a man-at-arms and the lady of the keep. Beautiful she was, aye, and as nervous as the day before. He wanted to talk to her but what could he say? Remembering how she had looked on those pedal-strewn sheets, how vulnerable and helpless – and how she had looked him in the eye and he had glimpsed sadness behind them... How could he say anything to her as if nothing was the matter?

So he held his silence and did as he was bid, letting her to her prayers. And observed her as she did so, getting his fill of her presence and her grace once again. Second time in two days – or whatever curious unit of time it was – but instead of it having slaked his thirst, it only inflamed it. While drinking in the sight of her Sandor expected that same curious tremor he had felt before to arrive – but it did not come. He shrugged; some things had been different and that must just have been one of them.

Seeing Sansa head bowed, clutching her hands together in an age-old gesture of appeasement to the gods, suddenly something occurred to him.

Without thinking he blurted, "What are you praying for, little bird?"

Sansa raised her head and looked at him, surprised.

"Not that is any concern of mine – just forget it." Sandor swore silently. Who was he to question her?

Despite having been rudely interrupted in her devotions Sansa didn't seem upset.

"You haven't called me that for a long, long time, Sandor." She had declined to call him simply 'Clegane' as everyone else did, considering it is too rude. Even more fervently she had refused to call him 'The Hound' and had banned all the others doing so, having heard from him that his old name had been discarded and buried on the banks of the Trident. "Why do you want to know?"

"No reason. Ignore what I said, I spoke out of turn."

Sansa sighed, gathered her skirts and rose to her feet. With just the two of them in the clearing her bearing was more relaxed than when she stood in front of her people, every inch regal and majestic. She was so close to Sandor that her scent reached his nostrils and he breathed it in, savouring the fragrant smell of herbs and flowers.

"I can't say there is any specific thing I pray for. I have…" she looked into the eyes carved into the tree trunk, frowning slightly "…prayed for great many things in my time, and never were my prayers answered."

Sandor guessed she was referring to her time in King's Landing where she had spent hours on end in the Godswood praying – for what? Not for a swift victory for Joffrey as she had claimed at a time, that much was sure.

"I have sometimes thought the gods don't work that way; they don't fulfil our desires as we want them, but know better than us what we need and may grant our wishes in another form." She looked at Sandor and squinted her eyes, a sad smile lingering on her lips. "At least I hope so. And hence I only…open my heart to the gods and hope that they see deep inside my soul and grant me what is best for me."

"And have they done that?"

"Maybe. I mean, I am back at Winterfell, the North is at peace again and the war in the realm is over – what more could I wish for?"

Sandor had no answer to that and so he fell silent again. Yet as they started their way towards the keep he addressed her again, encouraged by her apparent willingness to talk. Having deliberately avoided her for most of the time he had spent in the North the opportunity was as rare as it was unsettling.

"What would you pray should you ask for something particular?"

Sansa winced. "I don't think on those terms anymore, I told you so."

Yet another thought came to Sandor – the maester's tale had apparently made a bigger impression on him than he had thought.

"You have returned back to your old gods, I see. May I ask you a question about them?"

Sansa glanced at him curiously. "I am not sure if I can answer, but I can try."

 _What do I have to lose?_

"Have you perchance heard of _The Gods' Will?_ Something about how the old gods may will a person a second chance to re-live and rectify events that have gone horribly wrong?"

She wrinkled her nose, deep in concentration. "No, I'm afraid I have not. It sounds quite far-fetched; why would the gods care about misfortunes of one person?" She shivered and folded her arms across her chest. "Should it exist, I surely would have wanted such favour when I was younger."

"Many things in your past you would amend?" Sandor couldn't help asking.

Sansa sighed. "I wish many events in my younger years would have turned out differently. Yet most were such that even if I was to live them again, I wouldn't be able to change anything. So much was done to me without I having any say in it; nobody ever asked me. Only later have I been able to make my own decisions."

She stared ahead with unseeing eyes and Sandor wondered if she was thinking about her betrothal to Prince Joffrey or the time when Lord Eddard was executed – or her marriage to Tyrion or perhaps her time with Littlefinger?

"Now that I think about it, I believe there was truly only one time during those years when I was asked to make a choice about something that had an enormous impact on my life; to elect one of two options freely. And I chose wrong." She heaved an even deeper sigh and turned away, but not before throwing a distressed look in Sandor's direction.

"What was it - which you would change if you could?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. It is too late. Much too late." Tears started to pool in the corners of her eyes and Sandor cursed himself for making her remember all the bad things that had befallen on her. Clumsily he tried to make amends.

"It is all in the past now. Don't mind the old dog's ramblings, I should have kept my big mouth shut."

"There's nothing to forgive. I was only caught off-guard with your strange question. Truly."

"We shall talk no more of it."

Once again they returned to the keep in silence.

Only when back in his own room Sandor dwelled on what might have been the event Sansa had referred to; the only time when she had been asked to make a choice that would have made a difference and she had chosen wrong.

He knew it couldn't have been her betrothal to Joffrey – he had been there on the background when King Robert had boasted to Cersei how he had made Eddard Stark to accede to his wish to combine their houses. Neither had it been the events leading to downfall of her father; things had already proceeded too far to be changed and the childish, tearful revelation she had made to Cersei had only accelerated things slightly, if even that - and by now Sansa knew that too.

As for her second betrothal, neither she nor Tyrion had had any choice in the matter. And what Sandor had hear of Littlefinger's plotting, he had neatly framed Sansa for kingslaying thus making sure she had no other options but to follow him to the Vale. And later… after the Dragon Queen's ascension and the Kingslayer's noble quest to fulfil his promise to Lady Catelyn, she had taken her life into her own hands. Any choices she had made since then had surely been right choices and nothing to regret?

Somewhere at the back of his mind stirred a recollection of the offer _he_ had once made her; to come with him on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. Yet that had been no real choice - only battle-broken drunkards blabbering.

 _Had she left with me…_

Sandor got dressed into his new and crispy attire once more.

 _She didn't, she never would have._

Still pondering what Sansa could have meant he made his way towards the wedding procession. Nothing he could think of made him any wiser so finally he gave up.

* * *

The rest of the evening unfolded as Sandor knew it would. It was a strange sensation to know what was going to happen next and be able to react to things even before they took place. It was like a mummer's play where he knew his role and that of the others.

In the sept he observed Brienne sharply and saw how she shrank visibly when Jaime wrapped his cloak around Sansa. So, the wench's tears were not womanly tears caused by the happy occasion after all, but tears of unrequited love. Who would have thought the warrior maid had it in her, he wondered.

 _Who would think I could be so stupid, too?_

In the wedding feast Sandor ate his food and drowned his wine, still half-expecting to wake up from the curious spell at any moment. People around him laughed and toasted the happy couple – but when Sandor scrutinised them more closely he could see the same sadness in Sansa's eyes as before, and certain stiffness in Jaime every time when he attended to his bride's needs, filling her goblet or placing the choicest morsels of food on her plate. Their mood did nothing to improve his own and once again impotent fury welled inside him.

* * *

Knowing what was going to take place during the bedding ceremony Sandor interfered moments before Sansa's dress got torn and carried her to the chamber as before. This time Sansa had not been shaken and she looked at him inquisitively, but did not protest. If she was curious about why he had taken it upon himself to dismiss the rest of bedding revelries she didn't ask, and her trust in him touched Sandor in an odd way.

He laid her on the bed again – she held him back again. Sandor knew that they had a few moments before Jaime was to arrive and knelt next to the bed.

"Little bird, is this day one of those things? Those you would amend if you could?"

Sansa flinched and tightened her grip. "It doesn't matter, it is too late as you well know."

"But if you had a chance, would you? Not marry him?" For some reason Sandor wanted to know. He knew he had stepped across all lines of propriety with his questioning, but he threw caution to the wind.

Sansa turned her head away. "Why do you ask? _You_ of all people?"

 _Me?_ He didn't know why it made his heart beat faster.

Turning back at him Sansa continued, "Twice today you have come to me, after months of avoiding my company. Why? Why today – today of all days?"

Sandor had no real answer to her but he tried. "Jaime asked me to go with you to the Godswood. And I couldn't let those ruffians mishandle you, could I?"

"Why _have_ you shun me? Have I done something to you? Was the way how I treated you in King's Landing so unforgivable? I wanted to see you when you first came here, you know. I sought your company but you always fled." Still she didn't let go her grip and she rose to a half-seated position, her cheeks flamed. Accusation in her tone – and something else, _anguish?_ \- was clear as day, but it was not her tone but her words that shocked Sandor.

And then Jaime burst into the room.

Jumping up from the bedside Sandor turned to Jaime, his heart pounding, the touch of Sansa's fingers still burning his own, feeling inexplicably mortified as he had been caught in…doing what? Something that he should not have been doing, that's for sure.

This time he didn't wait for Jaime's offer for drink but bid his leave and was half-way out of the room before Jaime had even time to react. Sandor didn't turn to look back but stumbled across the corridor not knowing how he found his way back to the hall.

 _Shun her? I? She sought my company?_

Cold sweat trickled down his forehead. Nothing made sense anymore.

* * *

Sandor drank again, not only to quench his bitterness but also to quell the shock of Sansa's words. Strange events of the day flooded his mind, weirdness of it all defying logic and sense. What the hells was going on? Maester Samwell's explanation didn't satisfy him fully; the man could be wrong. Mayhap he had just dreamt the previous day and perchance there _was_ a bit of greenseer in him after all? Mayhap the blood of his ancestors, who had reputedly come from the North, had chosen this time to manifest itself in him?

Then he didn't want to think at all and called for more wine. And then some more.

* * *

When Sandor stumbled into his room in the wee hours of the morning and fell onto his bed like a log he thought no more about anything at all.


	4. Day Three - Part 1

**Author's Notes:** I have been extremely busy at work lately and also traveling (for work) - but I still wanted to post something, so hence the next day will come in two instalments. It is now going on to the third day - the chapter that could also be called "Sandor tries a new tactic".

* * *

 _ *****_ _ **BANG-CLATTER-CLANK***_

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

Wincing, he cursed under his breath. No doubt about it; the same day all over again. He didn't have to wait for the loud noises and shrieking outside his door to be convinced. _Bloody hells!_

As before, his head was clear despite the heavy drink he had drowned himself in the night before. _One good thing about this fucking nightmare._

He _was_ sure, but nonetheless, he got up wearily, donned his breeches and went to the door.

"What about the wedding?" he grunted to the girl kneeling on the floor, desperately sweeping the pieces of broken crockery with her apron. She looked at him fearfully, tears streaking down her cheeks.

"We…wedding, my lord?"

"Aye, wedding. When is it, or was it already?"

"The wedding is tonight, my lord," the maid peeped after collecting her courage, looking at him as if he had sprouted an extra head on his shoulders. It didn't take much to guess what she was thinking; how was it possible that there was _anyone_ in the keep unawares of the great wedding?

Sandor grunted again and slammed the door shut. So, whatever curse had taken hold of his life had not yet passed. Could it be the drink, after all? Mayhap he shouldn't have drank so much the previous night - but after the disturbing exchange with the little bird, how could he have not?

And if it was not the drink, what else? Could there be something after all in that crazy tale Maester Samwell had told him? But if so, why should it happen to _him,_ as he was surely furthest away from the old gods and no favourite of any deity?

Something was badly amiss, it sure as hell was.

He slashed his face with cool water, squinting his eyes while trying to recall how exactly the tale had gone. The queen had lived the same day over and over again, trying different things to change the outcome of the day. But she had brought it upon herself by praying old gods. Mayhap the day had been the gods' favour for her devotion?

Sandor certainly hadn't prayed for anything so that part didn't fit. The only person whom he knew still praying for the Northern gods and who had much at stake for this day was Lady Sansa - but why would she have asked for anything that might lead to this? Was she living through this too?

Stopping in the middle of rubbing his face dry Sandor tried to think back. The previous day, had Sansa shown any signs of re-living things? He recalled her every expression, every word – but no, nowhere had he detected any signs indicating that she would have known what was to come.

Suddenly he was struck with a thought: perhaps it was not about what he was supposed to _do_ , but what he was supposed _not_ to do? He must have unknowingly done something that had displeased the gods and their plans, and now they were trying to fix the matter by cycling this very day until whatever it was had been fixed and life could go on. He couldn't think what it might have been, but mayhap he had inadvertently interfered with the future lord and the lady of Winterfell's day with his intrusion into their – more particularly Sansa's – life?

Mayhap he had been right all along in avoiding her, and now that he had broken that determination the old gods were displeased? Mayhap they only tolerated his presence in the North as long as he knew his place?

It was time for the dog to go back into his kennel.

Sighing deeply and putting the towel away Sandor decided his course of action. Whatever the repercussions, it would be best for everyone if he stayed in his room the whole day; do nothing, interfere with nothing. The little bird would get her fairy-tale wedding and not get upset by him bringing back sad memories. As much as he hated to see her marrying Jaime, deep down he had to admit that the Kingslayer was a changed man and would make a good husband to the little bird.

Resigned, he threw himself back onto his pallet.

* * *

His squire came to see him mid-morning, wondering why he was not up and about. Sandor offered him a vague tale about stomach ache, and he accepted it, not gainsaying his superior - especially as the superior in question was known for his short and fiery temper. Before the squire left, however, he told him with glee how Yrin had defeated the famous Knight of Flowers in the training yard.

Sandor made all the appropriate noises but once the boy had left, he huffed and rolled his eyes. Winning those wagers would have been one good thing in this calamity but alas, that was not to be. Of course, if things didn't fix themselves soon, he would be left with empty pockets by the next morning in any case. But if they did…

Much later he received another visitor, Jaime knocking on his door. He seemed genuinely concerned, notwithstanding that his honour guard for the evening was going to lack a crucial member if Sandor was not there. And what about Sansa's visit to the Godswood which he had wanted to ask Sandor about?

Sandor told him the same story of unexpected ague even though it stung him to think that the one time Sansa needed him, he was not going be there. Nonetheless, it couldn't be helped. Besides, it was probably _exactly_ the thing required to move things along – her to be left alone and not followed by him fucking things up. And it was not as if there was going to be lack of men willing to serve their beloved lady in any way they could; she was much loved and respected by all.

Jaime appeared dubious but accepted Sandor's story with good enough grace, and asked if he wanted a maester to be sent to him. Sandor hastened to decline the offer, assuring that it was just a passing stomach complaint and he would be well enough soon. The last thing he needed was maester measuring his pulse and asking intrusive questions about the movement of his bowels.

Not that he wouldn't have minded some diversion to the boredom of lying in bed doing nothing. He was not used to that and soon both his mind and his body were restless. After Jaime left, Sandor walked around in his room and stared out of the window to observe the activities in full swing all around the yard. He picked up things and dropped them, going through his meagre belongings in no time. His whole life in the service of others and not much to show for it; a few tools of trade, some books, small necessities. Not a single thing in his possession just because he liked the look or feel of it, if one didn't count the banner with the Clegane sigil on his wall. Whether he liked it or not he wasn't sure – it just was.

Huffing of frustration he went back to his bed and forced himself to lie down. After all, he had spent countless hours standing guard and doing nothing, so surely he could do the same lying down?

* * *

Another visitation – most unexpected - came to his door before after midday.

First Sandor heard the approaching steps – others lighter, softer, the others heavier, thumping on a stone. Then he heard a woman's voice – and not just any woman's, but Lady Sansa's melodious tone. He stiffened. She had never been in his room – of course not – so how did she even know where to come? Why was she there in the first place?

Before Sandor had time to contemplate what it might mean, there was a knock on the door.


	5. Day Three - Part 2

**Author's Notes:** I apologise beforehand how even more introspective this chapter is – more about Sandor's musings and thoughts. What can I say? I find it fascinating myself and I naturally am want to write about things I like - but if someone finds it boring, I understand that too. *shrugs*

And in this chapter a lightbulb finally hits Sandor – kind of…

* * *

Without waiting for an answer the door opened and Maester Samwell's round head peeked into the room.

"Lady Sansa asked me to come and have a look at you, as she was told you are feeling poorly. She is worried, tells me you haven't been sick a day since you have been here."

That much was true. It _was_ unusual for Sandor to forsake his duties, especially for an important occasion, but stubbornly he stuck his heels in. He was bloody sick and that was all there was to it, and he didn't need some chain-wearing maester to tell him what he already knew.

Sam was however not easily persuaded and pressed on with his questions, and for a moment Sandor considered telling him – again – about the time warp in which he found himself. Yet he decided against it. He had already heard the maester's thoughts about the matter and especially with Sansa waiting behind the door, they simply had no time to go through it again.

 _I just have to get rid of him and her._

 _Why in the seven hells did she come with the maester anyway?_

So Sandor repeated his well-practiced story and declined any further examination, just as he refused to let Sansa to be allowed in. Maester Samwell nodded his head and although he clearly itched to explore further what was the matter, he was astute enough to see that Sandor could not be persuaded in this. Agreeing with Sandor that it was likely something passing and all he needed was rest, he gathered the leather bag he had brought with him – untouched – and withdrew, promising to come back later in the evening to check on his condition.

Hardly had the door closed behind the good maester when it burst open again and in a blurry of red hair, blue dress and flushed cheeks Sansa rushed in.

"But you are _never_ ill!" She took a few hasty steps towards him, but seeing him apparently hale and hearty, she stopped and let her extended arm fall to her side. " _Never,_ even in King's Landing - so when I heard that you can't get up, I thought…" she didn't finish her sentence but looked at him warily.

Sandor was shocked to see her in his room, shocked to realise that she had taken time on her wedding day to spare a thought for one insignificant retainer amongst many. It was common for a noble lady to concern herself with the welfare of people in her household, but mostly it was extended to old people, women and children.

Not men-at-arms and especially not old enemies, forgiven or not.

Yet there she stood, examining him with those piercing blue eyes. Sandor hated lying, and especially he hated lying to _her_ \- but he was already in too deep with his deception and couldn't back away. Besides, this was all for _her_ good anyway, wasn't it? And still…

 _Why is she here?_

"I'll be fine, don't let this old dog to spoil your big day," he grunted, desperately hoping she would leave. Maester Samwell had returned to the room and the creaking of the floorboards as he shifted his formidable bulk reminded them both of his presence. Sansa looked across her shoulder and said something so softly that Sandor didn't hear it, but Sam did – and nodded his head so affirmatively that all of his chins wobbled and went back to the corridor, shutting the door softly behind him.

They were alone.

The absurdity of it was too much. The lady of the keep on her wedding day alone in the bed-chamber of a man-at-arms?

How could the maester have left her like that?

Suddenly Sandor became much too aware that he was naked under the covers, as was his habit when sleeping. Yes, the blanket was drawn up above his waist, but it didn't require much imagination to figure out that it was the only thing maintaining his modesty.

If Sansa had realised the same she didn't give any indication of it. Slowly she walked towards the bed and as she approached, cold sweat trickled down Sandor's brow. He wanted to growl at her, curse at her, even shout if needed, to make her leave. Irrationally he found himself crouching, tensed as a high-strung bow – for what? It was not as if he could sprint up and run bare-assed to the door just to escape.

Sansa leaned over him and lay a hand on his brow, saying nothing, and the touch of her fingers felt like softest velvet against his skin. And the the tension left Sandor…flowing from his taut muscles through her fingers…and he closed his eyes and breathed in the moment before it passed away. The situation was most improper, and then again it wasn't.

Like the night before – nay, _two_ nights in a row – for a split second it was just the two of them sharing an oddly intimate moment.

"Is it true?"

Her question was sudden and Sandor roused slowly from the odd stupor he had succumbed to.

"What?"

"That you are truly ill. Or is it your leg?"

"My leg?"

How could she know about the leg? It _had_ been bad – a festering bloody mess - and initially the Elder Brother hadn't been sure how much mobility Sandor could retain with it. Yet in the end it had healed cleanly. That, combined with Sandor's dogged persistence with his exercises, had resulted in almost complete recovery. He prided himself for not showing any weaknesses and only after the most straining practice and _only_ when he knew himself to be alone, he allowed himself some respite and let his good leg support the bulk of his weight. _Nobody_ knew about it.

"Nothing wrong with my leg," he insisted.

"Isn't there? It ails you sometimes, I know. And sometimes you stroke it, as if it would ease it - the pain perhaps."

Sandor's mind scanned quickly through whatever might give her that idea - and realised that he _did_ have a habit of doing that, every now and then. When he was sitting on his own, not having to worry about being exposed as a lesser man, a broken man. Like wounds of soul, some wounds of body took a long time to heal and left behind fracture-lines, hidden to most.

And she had seen both in him, in King's Landing and now in Winterfell.

"Nothing wrong with it," he repeated stubbornly as admitting anything else would have been unbearable.

 _How does she know?_

Sansa didn't argue further but sat back, removing her hand from his brow, and a cold chill replaced the wamth of her fingers. Sandor glanced at her and if he wouldn't have known better he could have sworn her other eyebrow rose slightly, as did the corner of her mouth. But no, that was not Lady Sansa, always so serious, so calm and collected.

"If you say so I will have to take your word for it. Yet to be ill this very day… I will be sorry not to see you there tonight."

Something in her demeanour didn't go together with her words which were polite and soft-spoken. Was it the faraway gaze and the fact she didn't look him in the eye?

Sandor had no retort to that so he said nothing. Finally Sansa straightened herself, bid him to rest and recover and left the room. Just before stepping out she turned once to look over her shoulder, a deep furrow on her forehead, and then she was gone.

* * *

Sandor's day went by slowly, nothing but his thoughts keeping him company. A servant brought him a meal of thin, nourishing broth and he ate it slowly, resisting the temptation to call for wine. To hells with moderation, if ever there was a time to need wine, surely this was it? Yet he had to think of his deception. If he wasn't well enough to do his duty for the lady of the keep, he might not be well enough to imbibe in drink.

He pondered about all the little things he had noticed over the previous day - days. Brienne and Jaime; how clear it was that they still cared about one another. _Why in hells are they not together, then?_ That would have saved Sansa from a marriage dictated by duty and honour.

Sansa… With plenty of time on his hands she entered his head and refused to leave. A sore spot, normally pushed out of mind, buried deep. Months of studious avoidance had come to nothing because of a few words exchanged, the peculiar way she had looked at him.

And because of one visit.

A visit that had no reason whatsoever.

And she knew about his leg, a secret he had been sure had been his alone. How could she? It could only have been revealed to someone with keen perception, fine eye for detail and…

 _Has she been watching me?_

Sandor knew it would had been better not to let her back inside his head – but back she came. And the want came over him stronger than ever before, the need of his flesh mindlessly calling out for release.

Sandor was no stranger to that call and had heeded it before more times than he cared to remember. In Kings Landing, along the Street of Silk, it had been easy and uncomplicated but ultimately always leaving him empty and disillusioned. In the Quiet Isle there had been no women and his calloused palms had had had to suffice. In Winterfell…

His flesh stirred just as any other hot-blooded man's did at the sight of particularly fetching female presence; be it curve of an ass of a wilding woman clad in form-hugging leather or a generous cleavage of a full-bosomed wench leaning over a wash basin. Yet he had learned to suppress this reaction, detesting the way how other men allowed themselves to be made fools because of it.

Sometimes he had lazily though to give in to temptation and make an offer to one of the women known to be open to them – as why the hells not? Despite these thoughts so far he hadn't made a move, settling to his own hand and the practised moves that made him spend himself as quickly and efficiently as he did most things. The itch didn't come often, but when it did, more often than not it had been preceded by a glimpse of auburn hair and slender form crossing his path.

That last thing he didn't like to think or admit to himself.

Sandor closed his eyes and saw Sansa as he had seen her in her bridal bed; in a tattered dress, her shoulder exposed and its perfect roundness hinting at the delights waiting under the cloth for one lucky enough to explore them. Not letting go of the image he turned on his side and burrowed his head against the pillow, letting his hand slide down his belly and across its coarse hair to his cock, goading it to hardness.

What did it matter if it was her reflection in his mind? Who cared if it was her touch he conjured?

Stroking himself, slow at first, then speeding his pace. Loosening his grip, letting his fingertips dance on his flesh. Imagining that they were _her_ delicate fingers around him offered Sandor a momentary escape from the extraordinary maelstrom he had been sucked into. He knew a lady like Sansa would never touch a man that way, but it didn't stop him. _Softness of her palm sliding against his length, her eyes on it while she pleasured him…_

That thought alone made him shudder – and the sensations accompanying it made his hips buck against the mattress while something deep inside his core pulsated and built a pressure unlike anything ever before. Thrusting, _thrusting_ , deeper, _deeper_ …finally he surfaced in a blinding explosion of senses.

Sweat trickled down Sandor's forehead in the room now stifled in suffocating heat, the creaking of his bed boards gradually subsiding as he slowly returned to the reality. Last remnants of Sansa's face lingered in front of his eyes before they disappeared as a drifting smoke as he sighed and let his body slump.

 _Fuck!_

It was not the first time he had thought of her while fucking himself, but it was the first time he didn't feel ashamed about it. The last few days had been so bizarre that nothing really mattered anymore. What he did or didn't do seemed to count for naught.

 _Might as well think of her._

* * *

Sandor heard muffled music and low din of the crowd drifting into his room later in the evening. _So, the wedding feast has started._ He wondered if anyone was looking after Sansa's wellbeing during the bedding, and hoped that there was someone reliable and trustworthy with a clear head to keep an eye on things. It was excruciating to just lay there helplessly and wait for the night's passing, but he comforted himself with a thought that the next day he could get on with his life.

He had to. And forget all this nonsense.

The merriment went on as he knew it would, but finally after midnight the keep went quiet again. Yet his evening was not yet over – sometime later his attuned ears picked up heavy but unsteady steps approaching his door.

"Clegane, you son of a dog, you missed a grand wedding! And for what? Surely there is no sickness a good strongwine wouldn't cure!" bellowed one of the men-at-arms, one of the few with whom he had developed a bond of some sorts. Rogan was normally a quiet man in the typical northern manner - meaning that with drink in his belly he got exceedingly loud and boisterous. That he was well and truly drunk showed itself from his slurred voice and the heavy thump as he leant heavily on the door, swinging it open.

"What a feast, folks will talk about for some time that's for sure! You should have been there. The food and the drink and the music – and the wenches! Others take me, but some of those southern beauties…from what I heard from the lads they are truly wildlings in the pallet!" Rogan stumbled through the room and landed heavily on a chair next to Sandor's bed.

Sandor didn't really mind the intrusion, as the man might be able to satisfy his curiosity and tell him if anything out of the ordinary had happened.

"A sack of grain with a hole poked through it would feel like a wanton wench for the squires in this keep", he growled, raising himself to a sitting position. "Was there anything else worth mentioning?"

Rogan looked at him with slightly unfocused eyes, trying hard to concentrate.

"The wedding? Oh yes, the lion cloaked the wolf alright. The feast was good, as I said…" he appeared to be losing the trail of his thoughts for a moment but then his head snapped up. "The bedding! Nasty thing it was, not proper for a noble feast."

Sandor heart skipped a beat. "What? What happened, tell me and be quick about it!"

Rogan seemed to pull himself together, shook his shoulders slightly and frowned. He lowered the wineskin he had just raised to his lips and tapped the fingers of his free hand against his knee. Just as Sandor was ready to strangle him to drag the words out of his mouth, he coughed and started.

"There were some lads who took making the bride ready a bit too eagerly. A few of them – southerners who must have thought Lady Sansa just another pretty maid - tugged away her undershirt and tore her shift. There she was, the poor girl, only in tatters of dainty silks, in tears … That was not right, not right towards our kindly lady…" His voice trailed off and he grimaced as he recalled the ungainly sight he witnessed.

Sandor clenched his fists in anger. He remembered too well the time when Sansa was stripped almost naked in front of a snickering Joffrey, and Sansa's reaction to the tearing of her dress on the first evening. The incident had undoubtedly brought back dark memories – and that she should have been so treated…

 _I should have been there. I should have protected her._

Not noticing his seething, his companion brightened up a bit.

"But aye, such a fine looking maid she is! I was there and I saw it, the curve of her teats. Not saying with disrespect, just admiring the work of the gods when they made her, 'tis all," he added hastily when he saw Sandor's visage darkening. Suddenly sobering, he collected himself and continued more sombrely.

"I was not the only one who thought it improper. Brienne of Tarth was there in the groom's procession, just outside the wedding chamber, and saw what happened and how our lady looked – scared she was, poor soul. By the Warrior, Lady Brienne was angry already before she got there, and then she just…lashed out and charged one of the youths then and there. The boy was drunk out of his mind and didn't have a wit of a hare, not knowing that it is not wise to stand against Brienne the Blue. Grabbed his knife and before anyone had time to react, pierced her with it. Nasty affair, nasty affair indeed…" The man shook his head wearily.

"What about little…Lady Sansa? Who took care of her?" Sandor said through gritted teeth. _I should have been there!_

"She ran into the wedding chamber, quick as a lightning she was. The groom took charge of things outside - there was blood everywhere and a chaos to match. Ser Jaime… I have never seen him so wroth. After seeing to the Warrior Maid, who was hurt but not dead, he jumped the lad and it took three men to pry him away. The lad was lucky, really; had the maid died, Ser Jaime would have killed him for sure."

"What then?" Hot blood was rushing through Sandor's veins and it took all his self-control to prevent himself jumping out of the bed to finish what Jaime had started.

"The feast was over, as one may guess. The lad was thrown to the cells and Brienne taken to the maesters rooms. Ser Jaime took her there himself and the last anyone knows of him, stayed there even after the maester had dressed the wound." Rogan stood up, swaying slightly on the spot before turning towards the door. "That a man should forgo his wedding night for such a thing, is a wonder. Me and the lads had a quiet drink in the hall after all the ruckus and didn't see him coming back. We couldn't reckon why he left poor Lady Sansa all alone, likely waiting for him in their chamber."

Notably subdued by the sorry tale that had dulled the edge of his drunkenness, Rogan shuffled on his feet and took to the door, not even asking how Sandor was faring. Muttering something incomprehensible he left the room, still shaking his head.

It was just as well, as Sandor was not in a position to respond to anything but the hot fury that churned inside him. He was furious. _Why the fuck was I sitting here on my arse when the little bird needed me?_

Grinding his jaw and battling against impotent fury he wondered if _that_ was what was supposed to go differently – and if so, what was the purpose of it? A wedding guest in Winterfell cells, Sansa distressed, Brienne injured – and Jaime abandoning his new bride and spending his own wedding night with another wench. How the tongues must be wagging, how Sansa must be taking it - what a fine mess!

As it was, there was nothing he could do about any of it for now, so Sandor leaned back and tried to fathom once again what the fuck the gods were trying to tell him. This was not how it was meant to be. It simply _couldn't_. For the first time he found himself hoping that tomorrow would not come and he would have a chance to re-live this day again. He would do things differently, that's for sure. First of all, he wouldn't bury his ass and try to hide; no, whatever it was, he would meet it head on.

He pressed his fingers against his forehead and went through every little detail of what he knew. _Make a change._ Something must happen differently, otherwise there was no point in any of it. Nobody had died, not even Brienne, judging from Rogan's tale, so it wasn't that. There were no wars or battles or any such ort, so it couldn't be that either. The only thing of note was… _the wedding._

It hit him then and once again he cursed, out and loud, echoes of his most delectable selection of swearwords bouncing from the stone walls of his room. He cursed for what had happened, for Sansa's distress, Brienne's misfortune and Jaime's anguish – but most of all he cursed his own stupidity for not realising it earlier. _That is it. That is what I need to do._

In the end it was rather obvious and simple; he had to release the little bird from a marriage that was not right for her. More than that, slowly it dawned on Sandor that _he_ might be the only one who could do it – who _would_ do it. Lady Sansa was too honourable – _just like her father and look where it got him?_ – and would not go back on her word once given. And Jaime might be the Kingslayer and a rogue, but surprisingly enough he had grown a decent backbone during the tumultuous war years and likewise would not stray from the path he had chosen. Sansa didn't even have a family to look after her interests - and even if she had, marriage with a redeemed Lannister might seem the very best thing for any young maid in her position. Unless one cared about her true happiness.

 _And you are the one to care about it?_ a nagging voice inside his head questioned.

 _If not me, who else?_

Sandor thought back to their discussion in the Godswood and her poorly disguised discomfort which he now detected for what it really had been; unhappiness. And then there were the looks she had given him in the bridal chamber, as if wordlessly pleading him to do something, anything.

He had offered to take her away once – could it be possible that she was hoping him to do so again?

Sandor got up and paced restlessly back and forth while he tried to make sense of it all. Yes, the more he considered it, the more convinced he became that he had finally found the purpose and the meaning of the old gods will. Yet how to go about it, was a different thing altogether.

 _Can I do that?_

Sandor returned to his bed hoping as hell that he was not going to wake up to a new day the next morning, as that would mean that Sansa's nightmare this evening had been real, and that he would not have a chance to do what he now knew he must.

Never had waiting for sleep been so hard.


	6. Day Four - Part 1

**Author's Notes:** Aaaaw, I am so happy that the introspection in this doesn't seem to daunt you guys! There will be more of it, but  first there is a time for some action… Thanks you for all the lovely comments, they really make the difference to a writer who pours her poor little heart out into these little tales… *hugs*

* * *

 ** _*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*_**

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

A smirk spread across his face even before he opened his eyes.

 _Bloody better._

He got up and dressed quickly, impatient to get started with his task.

* * *

When Brienne came back from the armoury, Sandor was sitting on a bench near the sword rack in a state of deep concentration, trying to figure out how he could free Sansa from her predicament. So far all had gone more or less like the first day, and although his mind was made about what needed to be done, he still had to find out exactly _how_.

Would Brienne have a role in it?

Knowing what was between her and Jaime – amply manifested by the fact that the Kingslayer had abandoned his new bride on their wedding night to stay with her – should make the blow easier to bear for the jilted groom. The wench would be there to console him, mayhap.

Sandor glanced at the tall woman resting on the bench with a desolate frown on her face and felt a twinge of pity. So, the wench had already been seething by the time she had heard what had happened to Sansa yesterday. _No, not yesterday. In another dimension, in a time that didn't exist._ Yet, all those things _had_ happened. And in that dimension it must have been difficult for her to see Jaime wedded in front of the Seven, undressed, ready to bed his new wife. Sandor could understand what the warrior maid had felt, but that she had acted on it was unusual, as she was not known for hot-headedness.

Without stopping to think he got up and walked to her, the words escaping his lips before he had thought them carefully through.

"What if the Kingslayer was not to marry Lady Sansa? What would you say to that?"

Brienne looked at him and blinked her eyes. Despite the red rims surrounding them they were bright and deep blue – beautiful, Sandor had to admit. Now that for the first time he was thinking of her not just as a fellow warrior but as a woman, he saw that there _was_ something in her, something… appealing. Different, unusual, but it _was_ there.

"What about it? He _is_ marrying her, tonight. I wish them both all the happiness," she said in a flat tone, her attempt at indifference woefully transparent and inadequate.

"What if he wasn't?" Sandor insisted.

"So what? What's the use to speculate about it, as he _is!_ Might as well ask what if pigs could fly." Brienne had gathered her composure and her mouth compressed to a tight frown showing her growing agitation in face of Sandor's indelicate questioning.

 _You don't rid of me that easily, wench._ Sandor's resolve hardened.

"They do, if you throw them hard enough. Don't you know that the world is ruled by those who take action and do what they must? And not by those who just sit and accept things as they are?"

She threw a fuming look at him, but behind her ire he saw something else. Uncertainty, perhaps. Hunger, for sure. _Poor wench, still harbouring some hope._ Mayhap regretting past decisions, if there was truth in the gossip, Sandor guessed.

"Why do you men desire to torment me so much? Have you too heard some idle gossip and tongue-wagging? I thought you knew better." Brienne's voice was low and tense.

"I piss on gossip. I just don't understand this marriage at all. Jaime has his own keep in the Casterly Rock, only Tyrion and some poxy castellan looking after it. What the fuck is he doing here in the North? He should wed someone he can take home with him, not get stuck up here in Winterfell waiting for the young wolf to grow up. He is not even needed for that; there are other men who can take care of him, and Lady Sansa herself."

It all made perfect sense when he voiced it out loud and Sandor wondered why neither the bride nor groom had thought of that. Brienne looked at him, still wary but now more intent.

"Lady Sansa is not likely to meekly go back to South," Sandor continued. "This whole union has disaster written all over it. It should not happen."

Brienne seemed affronted and opened her mouth possibly to refute his words, then closed it again.

"But…there are other reasons for marriage than politics. Lady Sansa is a great lady, and beautiful." She flushed slightly at that and looked down, flustered.

 _It must hurt her like hells to say that._

"Aye, a great lady, but there is no love between the two of them."

"How would _you_ know?!" Quick as a flash, an affronted exclamation as Brienne's hackles got up.

It amused Sandor to see how she likely thought it impossible for anyone _not_ to fall for the Kingslayer, when she worshipped the ground he trod.

"I have eyes in my head. They get along well enough, but it is not her he looks at with puppy dog eyes. And she… haven't seen her too eager either."

"What do you mean, not _her_?"

Hells, of course she had to hone on that slip of a tongue! Sandor knew he had said too much already and should shut his big mouth before causing more damage. Then again… wasn't he going to break up the whole thing anyway, so what harm was there in adding some more kindling to the fire?

"Just what I said. Not her."

"Is there…someone else then?" Brienne had turned stiff as a plank, teetering at the edge of the seat, not looking at Sandor.

"Ask that question from yourself. With whom does the Kingslayer spend all his time? Who does he seek the first thing in the morning and the last thing in the evening?"

Now Brienne was fuming and got up, faster than seemed possibly for anyone her size.

"I _knew_ you were here to torment me, just like the others! I don't have to listen to this, Clegane, you hear me. I…" she seemed to struggle to find the words that would convey her revulsion adequately. "…I _piss_ on your mocking!" Without waiting for a reply she turned around and started a brisk walk towards the bath house.

 _Well, that didn't go down too well._

Shaking thoughts of Jaime's needs for consolation after being jilted at the altar out of his mind Sandor turned towards the keep, kicking a pebble as he went. The task in front of him was not simple; to tear a noble lady away from her impending wedding with only a few hours to spare. The lady who had no reason whatsoever to trust him or heed his advice.

And yet she had looked at him as if she wanted him to do something.

Kicking another pebble and cursing out loud Sandor sauntered ahead. If he could only make her see the reason – that she didn't _have to_ do it. Rickon was back; he would be the new Lord of Winterfell and with good guidance provided by the trusted Northmen and Sansa herself, the North wouldn't need a Lannister to defend it.

Because that's what it must have been; Sansa sacrificing herself for the good of her house and the North, knowing that an unmarried maiden as a sole heir would be seen as a weak target no matter how strong were the men supporting her. It was all about the bloody nonsense about ties of kinship and protection afforded by the Hand of the Queen. As he had said, there was no love in the union, Sandor was sure of. Not after what he had witnessed of their wedding feast, the start of their wedding night and Jaime's behaviour when the wench had been hurt.

For some reason the thought lifted his mind – not that he really paid heed to any foolish notions of love, usually.

* * *

On his way to the Great Hall Sandor stopped by the betting crowd. Having seen the scene already twice before he had no difficulties in identifying the fat fellow collecting the bets and waved him to his side.

"Ten golden dragons for Yrin to win," he shouted over the noises of the crowd. His voice being loud it carried over the hubbub and suddenly everyone stopped and stared at him. The book-keeper's jaw dropped but ten golden dragons was not a sum to scoff at and eagerly he accepted Sandor's bid.

Not long after that Yrin executed his daring move and Loras Tyrell ended up on his rump – as before. This time Sandor was prepared and followed the movement of Yrin's feet and sword and tucked it at the back of his mind for future reference. Not that he would ever be as swift and fast as the youngster, but he was not too clumsy for a man of his size even if he said so himself.

Chortling Sandor collected his winnings to the tune of disappointed swears by the sore losers, and a handsome cache of coins it was. A sum that might become handy if he ended up with a plan that required him to leave the keep in a hurry. An inkling of an idea had already started to form in his head. If only…

* * *

He found Jaime where he knew him to be, and this time it was his turn to sit down heavily next to the brooding Kingslayer.

"Tell me Jaime; the wolf-boy being back, is this marriage between you and Lady Sansa as important as it was before?"

Jaime stared at him, surprised. He had hidden the cloth – Brienne's headband – under the table when he had been startled from his thoughts, but Sandor had seen it – and chosen to ignore it.

"What do you mean? What an odd question to ask, especially on this very day."

Sandor waited, well aware that the longer the silence, the more likely Jaime would be to feel that he had to fill it with something. Might even be truth.

"This is a marriage well planned. It is aimed to benefit everyone concerned, Houses Stark and Lannister, the North and the whole realm." Jaime recited as a well-practiced tune. There was no conviction in his voice though, and no mention about his personal feelings about the union, Sandor noticed.

"That is not an answer to my question. What if it was _not_ happening, would that leave the North or either of your houses in trouble?"

Jaime frowned. "Why are you so interested? Last time I checked you were not overly concerned about politics."

Sandor knew that he was way out of his depth, never caring much about affairs of state and political intrigues. Yet as much as it riled him, he had to try to find out what consequences intervening with the wedding could cause. He wouldn't want his actions to lead the North into a new war or to an everlasting enmity between two powerful houses.

"What if take an interest to stately matters? I rather know what the lay of the land is if I am to tread on it," he growled. Even though Rickon's return from Skagos just a few moons ago had caused a mighty stir across the North, by that time the plans for the marriage had been so far advanced that indeed, nobody might not have even stopped to question them.

Rickon was a handful, that much was sure, but Sandor had spent enough time in the boy's company to recognise that there was nothing wrong with his wit or instincts. The boy had taken up lessons suitable for a future lord soon enough after his return and Sandor had been one of those chosen to tutor him in arms practice. A handful, aye, but with a good head on his shoulders and if he sometimes lashed out against the obligations and requirements heaped upon him, Sandor didn't blame him.

Better than the other young charge he had looked over for years. _Much_ better.

Jaime sighed. "No, I guess it wouldn't really matter that much – now. The North would survive just as well with Sansa alone as Rickon's guardian until he comes of age. The relationships between the Lannisters and the Starks have never been better, now that…" His voice trailed off leaving the sentence unfinished, but Sandor knew what he meant. _Now that Cersei is gone._

The Queen Regent had been found guilty of all the crimes the Faith had charged her years ago and then some, and the Dragon Queen had made sure that she had been put to death. Ironically the place of her execution had been the same where Eddard Stark had lost his head. Queer justice, and not entirely fair as of that particular abomination Cersei had – for once – been innocent. Yet justice it had been just the same.

Sandor had never asked Jaime about that and a brave fool would have been any person to do so, so tight-lipped and stern had Jaime been when the news of the Queen Regent's fate had reached Winterfell. Even Sansa had kept her distance and it had been a few uneasy days around the household for all. Even those who didn't know the true nature of their relationship were aware of the closeness and loyalty between the golden twins, and had threaded carefully.

Sandor had however a strong suspicion that by that time Jaime had already successfully escaped the golden snares Cersei had tangled him with, and his rile was more about the understandable upset on behalf of his family and his sister – as a sister, not as a lover. Sandor had been there and seen the two of them in Casterly Rock and later in King's Landing; two of them against the world, the true children of Tywin Lannister. Yet the arrogance and hubris that had only grown and finally devoured his sister, had vanished from Jaime by the time Sandor met him again.

 _Might have something to do with the certain warrior maid_ , he mused but kept his mouth shut.

Still, the news were good, better than what he had hoped. No harm would be done if Sansa didn't go through with the plan. The question remaining was why hadn't she realised that before but planned to go ahead nonetheless?

Having heard what he needed to hear Sandor got to his feet. Jaime hadn't let go of the headband under the table but was still squeezing it within his tightly closed fist and Sandor suspected that as soon as he left, he would start fiddling with it again. That Jaime's sentiments towards his second-in-command were more than just professional admiration and respect was obvious beyond doubt and he had no regrets about his words to Brienne.

 _Why would a grown man sniff and stare at the clothing of a woman unless he had feelings for her?_

Sandor still didn't fully understand it, he didn't know what to make of it – but then he thought of Brienne the Blue as he had come to know her; honourable, kind, stubborn, principled, loyal, generous – and suddenly it didn't seem so strange after all.

"Well, I better go."

"Also, don't forget that this wedding will forge a strong bond between our houses and will have a stabilising impact on the whole realm," Jaime shouted after him, sounding to his ears as if he would have wanted to convince himself more than Sandor.

* * *

Jaime came to him at midday meal.

Of course Sandor acceded to his request.


	7. Day Four - Part 2

**Authors Notes:** Here we go, one more step… still a way to go Sandor! Sorry about posting in these short spurts - I seriously overestimated my ability to focus on this, and to my dismay haven't been able to dedicate as much time to it as I hoped... RL and work mostly in the way, bleh. But the warm reception and lovely comments to this fic really inspire and spurn me on!

* * *

Sandor left towards Sansa's chambers earlier than before hoping to find something, anything, which might help him in his task. The route was familiar by now and the prospect of some time alone with her filled him with cautious confidence. Sansa was a sensible woman after all, grown out of foolish girly notions that had filled her head years ago – surely she would see the logic of his suggestion?

 _A suggestion of deserting her intended on the day of their long-awaited wedding with no reason whatsoever?_ _Sure, makes perfect sense,_ a voice inside his head sneered at him but he chose to ignore it.

He passed hoardes of harried servants clutching to their packs and parcels of food, linen, flagons of wine, crockery and fresh branches of pine brought indoors bringing with them a tangy scent of forest. The keep was alive, its heart thumping fast and furious all around him. The sounds and smells and sights of so many strangers agitated him and for a moment he longed back to simpler times and the monotonous existence on the island dedicated to the Seven. It passed soon, however, when his focus snapped back at the task at hands.

Sandor approached her door silently, seeing it to be ajar. The maid was still with her, he knew, so he retreated against the wall and waited. The stony wall against his back was warm and right there angled to form a nook, following the lines that had accommodated an entry to a chamber since vanished leaving only the recess in the wall as an indication of a long-gone door.

His plan was simple and his mind calmed by it. He was going to reason with Sansa, tell her all the reasons why the marriage was not necessary anymore, mayhap even hint to Jaime's inclinations elsewhere. That would be a low blow but he was ready to do that if it would make Sansa to change her mind.

"What is this horrible old thing? Yuck, it's the dirtiest thing I have ever seen! …and is it soot and ash? And my, is that _blood_?" The maid's loud voice carried across the corridor and Sandor leaned cautiously forward to peek through the doorframe. The maid was lifting a heavy cloth from the top of a wooden chest with one hand, keeping it as far away from her as possible, looking at it with disgusted expression.

"No! Leave it be!" Sansa rushed from her bedchamber to the solar grabbing the cloth from the maid's hands. She pressed it against her chest and turned aside as if suspecting the maid being ready to forcibly remove it from her grasp. The girl had of course no notions of such, only staring at Sansa with her mouth agape. The lady of the keep rarely raised her voice preferring to maintain calm demeanour at all times – having learned how to do that in the hard way in King's Landing, no doubt. To hear her so ruffled intrigued Sandor and curiously he focussed on the object of all the fuss.

Something in the shape and size of it looked familiar – it had been white once, and had clasps to tie it… then Sandor realised what it was.

 _The fuck?_

His old Kingsguard cloak, the one he had left on Sansa's floor on that terrible night so long ago – right after he had threatened her with his dagger and demanded a song from her.

 _She has it still._

 _Why?_

The maid acknowledged her defeat by huffing and going to Sansa's bedchamber carrying a pile of other, less contentious clothes. Sansa just stood there – and after a while, to Sandor's amazement, she sat down on top of the chest and pressed her face against the cloth. Dirty it was, smudged with smoke, blood and Sandor preferred not to think what else – but she didn't shy away from any of it.

And when she lifted her head there were tears in her eyes.

Sandor had to take a hold of the cold stones to stay upright, his knees suddenly having turned to jelly. His own words came back to haunt him. _Why would a grown man sniff and stare at the clothing of a woman unless he had feelings for her?_

No.

As soon as the thought flitted through his mind, he rejected it. Something had made the little bird hold on to the sodden cloak; mayhap her way of processing painful past, to show that she had overcome it. Tears – brought upon by Jaime's idiotic scheme and suggestion that Sandor would escort her to the Godswood. No wonder she had been flushed that first day, having forced to go face-to-face with the man who had…

 _Bloody hells!_

Should he abandon his quest and retreat quietly, find another men to take his place and make up an excuse to Jaime? Sandor's fists clenched and he closed his eyes trying to overcome the turmoil this unexpected discover had thrown him into. He swayed on his spot searching for an answer. To stay – or to go?

The maid left the room not noticing him in the shadows of the recess and he knew he had to make his move one way or another.

 _Fuck it._

He knew what he had to do - and nothing could avert him from his task. He pushed himself away from the wall and headed to her door.

* * *

As before, their walk towards the Godswood was quiet, Sandor threading a few steps behind Sansa. She had gathered herself, but having witnessed what he had made it easy for Sandor to recognise the reddening of her eyes as a proof of her recent tears.

It didn't help his mood or his mission.

Sandor knew he didn't have much time but the events had squashed the threads of confidence he had felt earlier and he could hardly think straight. And yet he must. But mayhap better to wait until they were in the Godswood and she had said her prayers?

He followed the way how the hem of Sansa's skirts swayed side by side as she walked, smooth wool gliding above the ground, a glimpse of her practical ankle boots peeking below every now and then. There was something hypnotic and soothing in the rhythm; right, left, right, left. As before, Sansa gave him a few sideways looks as if she wanted to say something – but she didn't.

The third time it happened Sandor couldn't help himself.

"Have something to say, little bird? Out with it, then." He immediately regretted his harsh tone and tried to salvage the situation belatedly. "You have a question, do you? As if you do, I'll gladly answer."

Sansa blushed, crimson hue spreading on her face until the tips of hear ears glowed pink.

"I am sorry if I stared. I didn't mean to."

"My face will not wear out if you do. Stare as much as you want."

Sansa slowed her pace so they were walking side to side but instead of accepting his invitation – of a kind – she watched the ground ahead of her, the soft matt of pine needles and low evergreen shrubs lining the packed earth of the path. Sandor tried again.

"Did you want to say something?"

"I was just wondering why did you accept Jaime's request. To escort me."

"Hells, I _told_ him he better ask your approval. And find a more suited person for the task."

"No, no – that's not at all what I mean! I was only curious… I haven't see you for months, not alone, and then this… I know you have deliberately avoided me and I don't understand why. So you see, my curiosity had good reasons."

Sandor grunted but he had no real answer to give, only a feeble excuse.

"Jaime asked me." Studiously side-stepping the real question, _why_ had he avoided Sansa.

"I see," she said, her tone however suggested otherwise.

They had reached the edge of the Godswood and Sandor abandoned his earlier plan to wait until after her prayers. The discussion was veering to an unfamiliar territory and he needed to gain back his ground.

"You know that you don't have to marry the Kingslayer, do you?"

That got Sansa's attention. She stopped, turned to face him and stared at him blankly. All the logical arguments Sandor had devised disappeared in front of that blue gaze but he plodded on nonetheless.

"Rickon being back and becoming the next Lord of Winterfell takes the edge out of all that nonsense about the lack of strong lord, need for heirs to continue the bloodline and necessity of protection by Lannisters because of you being a woman. It changed everything."

Still she stared, deep frown between her eyebrows. Finally she spoke.

"Why would you say something like that?"

"Because that is the truth and somebody needs to tell it to you."

"Why?"

"Because…so that you know that you don't have to go ahead with this foolish wedding."

Sansa turned, crossed her arms across her chest and continued walking at a brisk pace. Sandor followed, having no difficulties in catching up with her with his long strides. The path they had chosen was wide enough for two astride but just barely, forcing him to saunter so close to her that her skirts brushed his legs.

 _Too close._

"What is it to you if I go ahead with it?"

Her voice was so low that Sandor had to prick up his ears to hear her. The answer though…what could he say?

The events of the last few days – the same and yet so different – flashed in front of him. The way she had looked at him in the Godswood when he had asked about her regrets and his later ponderings about what she could have meant. How she had stayed her hand on top of his in the bridal chamber the first night – and followed him with her gaze out the door. Those peculiar words and the emphasis on one of them the second night; _'Why do you ask?_ _ **You**_ _of all people?'_ How she had rushed to his room full of worry, when thinking him ill. _And the cloak._

 _That bloody cloak._

The truth was that Sandor didn't know what to think. That she might not detest him after all or consider him a bleak reminder of the past sorrowful days he was ready to admit – but any other possible conclusions were so unthinkable he didn't want – he _couldn't_ \- give in to that temptation, not for a second.

 _Unthinkable._

What would she say if he told her that he didn't want her to marry the Kingslayer because he was sure the old gods were against it and had placed him into the position to ensure it didn't happen? She had not heard of _'The Gods' Will'_ – would she believe him if he told her? Or would she look at him as if he had lost his senses, disappointed, mayhap thinking he was playing a cruel jest on her religion? Would he have to argue with her about his conclusions, would she refuse the logic of it?

What would she say if he confessed that he didn't want her to marry the Kingslayer because he was…jealous? What…

"You haven't answered my question."

Arms still crossed, staring straight ahead at the old heart tree that was coming into view Sansa's voice didn't betray her emotions. Calm and collected, as always. _Almost_ always.

Thus interrupted in his musings Sandor struggled to choose his words.

 _Unthinkable._

He chose the path of logic.


	8. Day Four - Part 3

**Author's Notes:** Dribs and drabs continue... a.k.a. "Sandor tries logic". How will it turn out?

* * *

Sandor took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

"It doesn't make sense to let the Lannisters in now. Rickon needs to grow up his own man, not indebted to the lions. Tyrion is ambitious and in a position to exert significant power. If he – and Jaime – start to regard the North as an extension of their house's domains, Rickon will have a hard time to exert his independence when he is of age."

Sansa's raised eyebrow might have irritated him before – what, just because he didn't go on bleating about politics and such nonsense why did everyone assume him incapable of logical thinking? First Jaime, now her. Stubbornly he continued.

"What do I care, I hear you say. Well, as it is I do. I served Lannisters once and have no wish to do it again. With Jaime lording over this place and his – your - children growing up under the influence of Tyrion and likely fostered out to Casterly Rock… I'd rather not see that. And I suspect neither do you."

 _There._

They had reached the heart tree but Sansa seemed to be in no hurry to bow to the gods. Hands on her hips she regarded Sandor thoughtfully. He pretended not to notice it, instead making a big show of checking around the perimeter for possible intruders, before turning back to her.

"So you see, it might be best for the North if you didn't go through this."

"Since when have you cared about the North's best interests?" Her tone was mild, not affronting, even though the words might have suggested otherwise.

"Since I chose to make this my home. And you allowed me to."

Their mutual staring contest continued without either backing down. Then a thought hit Sandor and it made him nauseous. _Unless…_

"Unless you _want_ to marry Jaime, that is. If he is your knight in fucking shining armour, then you…"

"He is not."

Sansa's response was immediate, hurried. Her mouth pursed tightly, rigidly, but then she sighed and tension in her stance eased. It was if she was unconsciously mirroring Sandor's own instinctive relief of hearing those words.

 _She said no. She cares not for Jaime._

"It is not as simple as you make it. I have given my word, I couldn't back down on it now. Jaime wouldn't understand."

"He would, he knows just as well that circumstances now have changed."

"Have you spoken to him about this?"

Trying to avoid answering Sandor continued. "There is plenty of time to call this off. Have a feast if you want, make it a celebration of the young lord's return. Watch over him and tutor him to the best of your abilities. Ask Jaime to stay here a bit longer if you wish, give him an honorary appointment in the North to keep the lions happy. Just don't marry him."

Sansa's eyes were still fixed on his face, examining it contemplatively. Sensing that he was gaining ground Sandor had still one more arrow in his quiver.

"If you go ahead with the wedding – and it _is_ your choice, no mistaking it – it would be one of those things you'd want to change later if you had a chance."

As Sansa's face opened up in surprise Sandor realised a fraction too late that she had not had the discussion _he_ had had – in that other dimension. Hastily he tried to repair the situation.

"Maester Samwell told me about an ancient thing, a lore about ' _The Gods' Will'_ , where the old gods will a person a second chance to rectify a specific event that has gone wrong. It is not given lightly and is rare, but it makes one think what one would change if given an opportunity."

Sansa frowned. _"The God's Will'?_ From the old gods? I can't say I have ever heard of such a thing." She sighed. "But then again, I didn't pay proper attention when my lord father and Old Nan told me about those things – my head was filled with the Seven and everything that was Southern."

Sandor hadn't intended to ask the question but observed her reaction curiously. Seeing Sansa's visage darkening and turning inward, then looking quickly back at him, he couldn't help himself.

"What would you change if you could? Anything you would do differently?"

 _It might have been something to do with the Tyrells… there had been rumours, and Joffrey had been wroth with the way they had crowded around Sansa before she had been married to Tyrion._

 _Or mayhap Littlefinger had given her a choice – a twisted, warped choice, but a choice nonetheless._

Signs of struggle on her face; indecisiveness, uncertainty, then resolution.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Aye, I do." Sandor swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Sansa looked down, then raised her head defiantly.

"If you must know, my regret is that I didn't leave with you when you asked me – during the Battle of the Blackwater."

Stunned silence on Sandor's part, bold stance on Sansa's, followed this statement.

 _She…_

 _I…_

If Sandor's knees had been like jelly in the hallway outside Sansa's chamber, now they were like water, hardly able to carry his bulk. He took an involuntary step towards her, then seized a hold of himself and stopped. Suddenly finding himself short of breath he croaked feebly.

"You…you don't know what you are talking about. I was in no position to look after anyone at that time, not even myself. It would have ended badly."

Sansa shook her head wearily. "Maybe, maybe not. Being married to Tyrion, framed for murdering Joffrey in cold blood and taken to the Vale to hide under Lord Baelish's 'care' – I wouldn't exactly call them good outcomes either."

"Might be so. But at least you were safe and well fed and not riding rough with a brute like me. That wouldn't have been pretty."

"Well, we will never know, will we?"

Her tone was flat and she turned towards the heart tree, wiping her hands against his skirts.

"Now, if you don't mind I would like to do what I came here to do."

Recognising dismissal when faced with it Sandor bowed his head and stepped back. He had talked too much already, had crossed all kinds of boundaries that were not supposed to be crossed.

While Sansa concentrated on her prayers Sandor tried to clear his muddled mind. Somehow the straightforward discussion he had planned had strayed into strange terrains better to be left unexplored. And Sansa…she had seemed willing enough to hear him out, but then she had turned frosty.

Observing her as before Sandor noticed that the calm that had been there before had disappeared; the serenity changed into nervous disposition as she shifted her bearing, moved her hands from her lap to her sides, then back to her lap. Her lips moved, then stopped, then she blew air loudly through her nose and flicked her head back.

He felt guilty, knowing he had unsettled her thus.

* * *

Sansa's frostiness continued on their way back and Sandor couldn't help wondering whether it was because of him butting his nose into matters that were not his concern, or because she was riled by something else. Mayhap by his reaction to her admission? Mayhap both?

Nonetheless, he still had a job to do, but just as he was formulating his next argument Sansa slowed her pace and waited until he was by her side once again.

He waited in silence, curious to see what would come next.

"Is that the only reason you are troubled about this marriage? The political implications to the North?" Her tone was tense but not hostile.

 _What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?_

None of Sandor's real reasons stood the light of day – so he said nothing.

"I am not stupid. I know I need to marry sooner or later anyway, whether Rickon is here or not. And I want…I wish for children of my own." Sansa looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Believe it or not, it was Cersei Lannister who made me realise this."

"Cersei?" Sandor said, disbelieving.

"Yes. She told me, soon after I had flowered, that even though I may not love my lord husband, I will always love my children. And I realise that is true. Children are a blessing… You know I grew up in a family of many children, and even though there was love between my father and mother, the love she bore for us was something special."

Well, if there was anything good to be said about Cersei, she _had_ loved her children.

"Cersei also said that love is poison – sweet poison but poison nonetheless. And as long as nobody is willing to care for me for my own sake but only for the sake of my title, my lands or my house, I might as well marry someone who is kind to me. It is not like there is anyone else, or likely to be."

Shocked to hear Sansa's statement Sandor at first missed the bit about Jaime as she continued.

"…he doesn't love me any more than I love him, but he has been a good friend. I could do worse, much worse." A dry chuckle. "I _have_ done worse."

 _Not cared for her own sake? Gods!_

Sandor had never given much thought to the idiocy called 'love' – in his mind a byword to hide the reality of lust and possessiveness, or a mummer's devious tale intended to fool stupid maids and rash youngsters. There was no such thing as love, how could there be? And yet to hear that she thought nobody would care for her, not value her, not want her…

Protectiveness, respect, appreciation, he recognised those things. Wanting only good things to fall upon someone, being ready to sacrifice his own life if needed to save that of another – waiting for the moment to see that person and ruing the moment when they were not there…

 _Could it be?_

The way back seemed decidedly shorter than their journey to the woods, but Sandor was hot and sweaty despite the cool wind blowing through the leaves and felt as if he had been running the distance in his full armour, hands and legs trembling. Sansa had fallen silent once more and walked hunched, her shawl tightly wrapped around her.

He tried one more time.

"You can wait, you don't have to do it _now._ You don't have to marry him!"

Nothing.

"Is there anything I can say to convince you to change your mind," he asked finally in desperation, aware of his time with her running out fast.

Sansa stopped and studied his face, searchingly, intensely. Apparently not finding what she was looking for she sighed. "No. And if you excuse me now, I have to get back. Thank you kindly for escorting me, but I can find my own way from here." She turned and outright ran away, in soft strides and holding up the hem of her dress to prevent it slowing down her progress.

Sandor stared after her as she weaved through the trees, gracefully and as if one with the forest that surrounded her. The maiden of the woods, the spirit older than the Seven. And then she was gone.

* * *

On his lonely walk back to Winterfell the vague idea in his head started to take form. Sandor had no doubt in his mind any longer that he had to save her – even from herself.

 _Whatever it takes._

 _Even if she will hate me forever for it._


	9. Day Four - Part 4

**Author's Notes** : And how did Sandor's Great and Wonderful Plan work? Read for yourself… *sigh*

* * *

Sandor packed swiftly and efficiently, only the most necessary items. Once his mind had been made up he fell with relief into the safe routines of planning, action and taking whatever steps were needed to achieve his goals. He didn't have much to pack anyway, and whatever was not needed on the upcoming journey he was content enough to leave behind. He hesitated for a moment in front of his house sigil, fingering the coarse fabric. Sansa had commissioned it to be made by her sewing ladies once he had arrived at the keep, but he had refused it to be flown among the other banners in the hall. Somehow it hadn't felt…right.

Sighing he dropped the canvas and let it be. What he was about to do tonight wold bring even more shame to his house – as if its reputation was not dark enough as it was, thanks to Gregor and his own doing.

When he was done, Sandor took one last look around his room. If he was to be successful and break the cycle, it was unlikely that he would be back there for quite a while – if ever. Kidnapping a bride on her wedding day was frowned upon even here in the North, where wildling ways of stealing women were well known and even accepted by some.

Would she struggle? How long would it take her to accept that what he did was for her own good? Aye, she would be furious at first, of that he had no doubt, but eventually she must calm down. And then…would she be glad that it was _he_ who took her away? Or would she hate him forever for forcing her fate?

If so, he would bear it.

Sweat made Sandor's hands clammy as he tied the leather bags to Stranger's saddle, having led him to the back of the keep, not far from Sansa's rooms. His trusted companion pawed the ground, eager to be out after days spent mostly in the stables. Sandor scratched his head where his mane passed between two pointy ears and the horse nibbled the hem of his jerkin. ' _Easy there'_ , Sandor muttered to his horse as much to himself and pushed his head gently away.

Securing the last bindings he cursed that he couldn't pack any of _her_ things, but how in hells could he get his hands on her clothes, or those of any woman in the keep, without raising suspicions? The best he would be able to do would be to secure enough blankets and beddings to keep her warm, as well as to take all his savings and the coin he won today. They could always buy more clothes later.

His decision made everything seemed crystal clear. He was calm, efficient, finally in control of the situation. He even knew where he was going to take her first.

Only a few hours' ride away was an old lodge he had discovered soon after his arrival to Winterfell. Such little hovels were littered here and there in the middle of the forest to serve as temporary accommodation for hunting parties, wood-fellers, and tar burners. Northern winters were hard and sometimes all that stood between life and death was a sturdy shelter to protect travellers from death, and hence such lodgings were usually well kept and protected. This particular hut had, however, been damaged by a fallen tree and abandoned for a new cabin built some distance away. From the signs of it, nobody had been there for years – maybe not for decades.

Sandor had been in the company of Brienne at the time, the two of them being stragglers following the main party after Brienne's horse had lost its shoe and he had stayed behind to help her find it. They had taken a shortcut to reach the others and had stumbled into it, almost hidden by overgrown vegetation and the slowly decaying tree trunk leaning against its roof. Sandor had been curious and while Brienne had watered their horses in a nearby stream he had peeked inside and to his surprise found that the inner ceiling had withstood the damage and the interior of the place had been surprisingly intact.

Yes, being secluded, away from public roads or paths and abandoned, it would do well as a hideaway for the first few days.

* * *

Sandor observed the comings and goings near Sansa's rooms from the familiar recess in the wall. The maids came to and fro, as did Sansa's companion ladies; daughters and sisters of the lords in the North - and once even the castellan of the keep popped in, undoubtedly to talk about some last minute arrangements. After a while he started to chafe, wondering if he would ever have a chance to see Sansa alone - or would he have to rob her in front of everyone. The waiting did nothing to ease the tension in his belly and more often than not he found himself helplessly clenching his fists and wanting to pace, but the small space didn't allow him even that satisfaction.

Eventually he saw his chance when all the ladies left in one big giggling crowd, presumably having prepared the bride ready for her wedding.

 _Now or never._

Sandor took a deep breath and squared his broad shoulders before knocking on the door. For a long time there was no answer but then he heard soft steps and the door creaked open. Behind it, Sansa, dressed as he had known her to be in all her finery, her hair ribboned and piled high, her curves accentuated with the cut of her dress of dark grey brocade and light grey and white silks. Had this been the first time he saw her thus he would have stopped in his tracks at the sight of such beauty, but as it was, he didn't have time for what he had seen – and appreciated – already before.

Sansa's eyes widened at the sight of him.

"May I come in?" he rasped. He owed it to her to ask her to leave on her own free will one more time.

She hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside and opened the door wider. As Sandor entered Sansa stayed by the door but closed it behind him nonetheless, the same wary look in her eyes as in the Godswood. Once again Sandor's throat was oddly dry and he toyed with the hilt of his sword, its solid feel giving him some anchorage in the surreal situation he found himself in.

"Little bird, it is still not too late. Free yourself from a marriage you know is not right for you and come with me. I'll take you away, save you from yourself." He spoke fast, words tumbling out of his mouth, boosted by his desire to see her come willingly.

She looked at him for a long time, her features not betraying her emotions but something fierce flickering behind her eyes. Sandor wished… he wished he had something with which to convince her, but he came up empty.

Finally Sansa shook her head, in slow movements; right, left, right, every shake sinking his hopes deeper and deeper.

"I can't. I have given my word and I must go through with it."

Sandor's heart plummeted, settling heavily at the bottom of his stomach, almost a physical pain.

 _So there is but only one way out of this._

Hardening his heart Sandor reached Sansa in one long stride while pulling a long piece of torn cloth out of his sleeve and before she could react, tied it around her head and across her mouth. In swift movements, he bound her hands together by the wrists in front of her with another cord and threw his cloak around her.

Sansa didn't have a chance, wouldn't have even had she tried to resist. As it was, she only stared at him, her eyes big as saucers, squirming in his arms and emitting unclear sounds under the cloth.

All that it took was a few seconds.

"Forgive me, I am doing this for your own good," he whispered into her ear, knowing it was more to make himself feel better than a plea with any real chances of being heard. No, Sandor was perfectly aware that what he was doing was unforgivable.

Holding her in one hand Sandor pulled the cloak tighter and pressed her hands against her sides, securing her with a belt – thus wrapping Sansa into a tight bundle. Lifting her onto his shoulder he threw a quick glance across the room, then in a few steps entered her bedroom and after rummaging in an open coffer with one hand found a plain dress he threw on top of the cloak. As he was walking out of the door he grabbed a hair brush from the side table and stuck it on his sleeve. There were other beautiful things but he had no time for those; only the thought of mayhap seeing her brushing her hair in front of him was too irresistible.

Balancing his load he cautiously opened the door to the corridor. Seeing nobody, he stepped out.

His planned route took them through quiet corridors, across the battlements, and behind the buildings. As he had hoped, they didn't meet anyone along the way until they reached a small side gate built in the walls of Winterfell. There he saw a stable boy mucking behind the stables – the same boy who had seen him earlier taking Stranger out in all his gear. Sandor swore silently, but the boy looked concentrated in shovelling horse shit and he thought he didn't notice them.

Sandor hoped he didn't.

Stranger snorted softly as he saw them coming. Sandor mounted fluently despite his load, which he settled unceremoniously in front of him in the saddle. Sansa had stopped struggling somewhere along the way but became invigorated after being seated, and writhed and turned until he pulled her close against his chest to restrain her.

They rode out of the keep and Sandor didn't look back.

* * *

 _The point of no return._

 _So be it._

Sandor urged Stranger into a gallop until they were a good distance away from Winterfell, then slowed the pace. He cut the cords binding Sansa's wrists but was loathe to loosen her gag, vaguely anxious that she would talk him out of the stern resolution directing his actions if she had a chance.

Once again Sansa had settled down, hardly reacting to her new relative freedom, seemingly resigned to her fate. Her weight had been hardly noticeable at first but as they rode he noticed it – too well. It was not only her presence but also her physical proximity that affected Sandor. She was so soft, so warm, her body yielding against his in the tune with the horse's movements, after she must have realised that sitting stiff only made riding harder for everyone, the horse and herself included.

 _Is she starting to accept this already?_

The air was crisp and clear, the smells and sounds of forest attacking Sandor's senses. A tentative hoot from an owl, not quite ready for its night's adventures; a waft of sharp smell of pine needles from a crop of newly grown saplings on the side of the path. In other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the ride and the sense of freedom it represented. But now…

As they rode he spoke to her in short halting sentences, stopping and then continuing again, telling her that he was _absolutely_ sure that she was not supposed to marry Jaime, that there was not going to be ill will or long-lasting consequences for the North even if marriage didn't go ahead, that he only wanted what was best for her.

"Don't you think that had someone done this to Lord Eddard when he decided to do the honourable thing after King Robert's death, he would be here in The North now? Your mother and all your siblings would be here too, with you. What is honour worth when one's life's worth and happiness is at the other end of the scale?"

Sandor was well aware that he was talking mostly to himself, but he hoped that something, some words or sentiments would stay with her when he was gone – as he knew he inevitably would be. One way or another she would leave him and he would not be able to go back after the atrocity he was committing.

Sansa was forced to hear him, but what she thought of his words he didn't know – only felt her stiffen when he spoke of her father.

And so they rode on.

* * *

The hut was as he remembered, a small one-room cottage with a big fireplace and a wide pallet at one end of the room. Despite looking outwardly damaged by the tree it had been protected from the elements of nature with its still intact ceiling, sturdy oaken door and tightly closed window shutters. Only a thick layer of dust on all surfaces and a musty smell spoke of years of neglect. Sandor carried his still bundled cargo inside and let Sansa gently on the floor, finally releasing the cloth covering her mouth.

He was prepared for heated words, shouting, even wailing. Yet all she did was to stand still, rigid as a wooden post, silent tears streaming down her cheeks and the saddest look he had ever seen on her face. Her hair was dishevelled and the fine gown crumpled and lashed by branches of trees and bushes through which they had had to push on the last part of their journey.

"Sandor…what have you done?" she finally sighed and buried her face in her palms. And it was that lack of anger and sadness that twisted in his heart worse than any blade, and for the first time Sandor wondered whether he had been right after all.

"I have told you, time and time again," he grunted, disconcerted. "The marriage will not go ahead now and you are free."

Sansa moved to the pallet and sat down, wearily rubbing her wrists.

"You know nothing, Sandor Clegane. Do you think it is as easy as this? They will realise that I didn't go of my own free will and they will come and find you, find us." She retreated towards the corner of the cot, lifted her legs on the wooden bed and crossed her arms around her raised knees. She looked young and vulnerable, painfully reminding Sandor of the King's Landing.

The difference was that this time the monster was him, not Joffrey.

"Jaime will find and revenge me, he has no choice. He is honourable – and don't even dare to doubt it. He is a changed man and has always been good to me. Just as I couldn't insult him by leaving him on our wedding day, he can't let me go without at least trying to claim me back." Her voice was tired and devoid of emotion. She didn't sound angry – only defeated.

"He can try but he'll not find us. Eventually, he has to give up and then we can return – or you can return on your own. He won't take you back anymore, the Lannister honour would not allow it."

"So you'd have people believe I was taken by force and rendered damaged goods? The noble maid abducted and raped by a brute - is that your plan to save me from myself?"

"Hells, of course not!"

"What then, pray tell? Paint me a foolish girl who ran away with her knightly love and despoiled herself in doing so?"

"No! You'd be…" _'neither of those things'_ , Sandor was going to say before realising that it would be _exactly_ one or the other that people would believe. And although she had said _'her knightly love'_ with no discernable emphasis, Sandor didn't need it to recognise how ridiculous it sounded.

The realisation hit him in full force and he almost stumbled. In his keenness to prevent the marriage by any means necessary he had not stopped to think beyond this very day.

 _She is right._

 _Fuck!_

The worst of it was that Sansa was so calm and resigned when saying those things - those terrible truths. Suddenly Sandor wished she would shout, be furious, throw his stupidity in his face – but she didn't. She only stared at the opposite wall of the hut with a vacant expression, her chin slightly trembling.

Sandor hadn't expected such quiet disappointment and resignation, and still reeling from her words he just stood there holding the saddlebags, feeling like a fool.

"And you…" Sansa looked at him now, really _looked_ , and there was sorrow in her eyes. "You were the only one who never forced me, and even in your darkest hour you controlled yourself. You treated me as a person, not a chattel to be owned or given away or sold to the highest bidder. I trusted you. I thought you better than any of the others. _That's_ why I held you in my heart for all these years."

She swept her hand across her face and winced. "And now you did _this_. You didn't respect my wishes, no matter how ill-judged they might have been."

 _'…held you in my heart…'_

A long silence ensued. Sandor had no response, as there was nothing he could say. Even his earlier conviction that no matter what she thought of him, it was going to be worth it, started to waver.

And slowly he realised that by doing what he thought was best without making sure that she agreed with his notion, he had destroyed the very base of the good opinion she had for him – mayhap even something more. Sentiments whose existence he had only recently discovered.

Dazed, Sandor turned and walked out of the door to the clearing in front of the lodge. The night was fully dark, only a silvery light of the moon casting long shadows. He walked, not knowing or caring where he was going, and at the edge where the trees grow tall, he crouched down on his haunches and rocked back and forth, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and pulling hard, cursing. The pain of it did not compare to anguish inside him.

 _Fucking seven hells!_

* * *

In time he stirred, knowing that regardless of what had been said and done they still needed to light a fire, needed to eat. He had destroyed something he had never even dreamed of having, but life had to go on. Slowly he got onto his feet, his body weighing a ton, and turned towards the hut in slow motion.

Then he heard voices.

"There they are! I knew it!"

Startled Sandor glanced across the clearing and saw a small group of riders approaching, Jaime, Brienne and the stable boy in the front. _Fuck!_ His hands sought a purchase of his sword but too late he realised he had left it inside.

 _Fuck fuck fuck!_

He ran towards the hut, hearing a thunder of hooves behind him and glancing behind his shoulder saw Jaime riding towards him, his face contorted in a mixture of rage and grief. His sword hand was raised but the blade pointed upward, the hilt downward, and the last thing Sandor saw was the hilt coming down.

He felt a loud thump at the back of his head and then everything turned black.


	10. Day Five - Part 1

**Author's Notes** : Thank you so much for the wonderful and encouraging comments – they are such a great part of writing fanfic! I couldn't imagine slogging away on this story on my own, posting only the final product… Fanfic writing is truly an interactive process, and very different from traditional creative writing where the end result only is released for the public consumption. Yay!

* * *

 ** _*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*_**

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

For a moment he didn't know where he was - then the last image he had faced came back to him; the hilt of Jaime's ornate sword, the emerald green eyes of the lion rampant on its grip guard coming down, down, down…

And then nothing.

He jumped up on the bed, his heart pounding so hard in his ears it drowned out even the noises from the corridor; the shouts, the wailing, the clink, and clatter.

 _Where am I? Where's Sansa?_

The second last thing he remembered was Jaime's face, full of anguish and fury, and he leaning forward in the saddle of his horse… Instinctively Sandor touched the back of his head but felt nothing unusual; no bruise, no swelling, just sleep-matted hair. To make sure he ran his fingers across his forehead, his face, then back to the top of the skull. Nothing.

Slowly his heartbeat returned to normal and he lay down again.

 _The gods have granted me yet another day._

The relief flooded his veins making him lightheaded. The elation, slow at first, shadowed by the frustration of being stuck in this cursed day once again, bubbled soon over when he realised that the damage he had inflicted on Sansa and her good opinion of him could be undone – _had_ been undone. Sandor let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a curse and a sob, when he fully grasped the significance of it.

 _This is a new day. I can try again._

He let the thought sink in, stretching himself in bed and taking his time thinking of the events of the previous day – days. He was not in a hurry. The blasted knight from White Harbour would not miss him, and if Jaime did – well, that was his misfortune. He was not going to fuck up again because of haphazard planning. He was not going to bring grief to Sansa - again.

He spent a moment wondering if any of the events of the last few days had made any impact at all on _her_ , however small or inconsequential. Was she perchance waking up this very moment, mayhap carrying a dreamlike recollection of some things that had transpired…?

Sandor blinked. No, it couldn't be. So far she had not seemed to sense anything amiss, only assessing him during their interactions as she had that very first day, after months of no contact whatsoever. Surprised, but willing to give him a benefit of a doubt.

Aye… all those months of ducking away when he had seen her approaching. Sandor knew now that her presence on those early days had not been a coincidence, not the lady of the keep happening to pass by.

Sandor groaned, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyeballs as if to push the sight of her lonely form at the back of the armoury, in the training yard and up the ramparts, back in. He gritted his teeth, even as he kept his hands resolutely pressed to his eyes. Gods, how fucking stupid he had been!

No wonder she had been wary of him when he had lashed out telling her things she clearly did not want to hear; tales about politics and Northern independence and how she should give up the last thing she was still dreaming of; babes of her own whom she could love and care – as she thought nobody would care for her.

Suddenly it was all too much and Sandor got up, seething. He needed some fresh air, some space.

To think it all over.

 _Very_ carefully.

* * *

He headed to the training yards but sought no opponent, longing for a solitude away from the hustle and bustle. The keep was so full of people that lest going deep into the Godswood or into the wild, he had to settle with what little privacy he could find wherever he could. A sufficiently hidden spot behind the last training enclosure seemed adequate and he sat down, back against a tree, long legs stretched in front of him.

 _Well then._

Apparently it was not enough only to prevent the planned wedding event, he had already concluded. Had things transpired further the previous night, Sansa would have returned to Winterfell, he would have been thrown into the dungeons and Jaime and Sansa would still have married. Nothing would have changed – except his own fate. He could have expected no mercy for his actions; being driven out in shame and exiled from the North being the best case scenario, loss of a hand or even his head a distinct possibility. Mayhap even Sansa wouldn't have intervened on his behalf after he had let her down and betrayed her trust in such appalling manner?

He could still see Sansa's eyes and their pain when her regard for him had crumbled into dust. The despair of seeing one person she had trusted more than others - even if Sandor himself had not known that before - betraying her.

 _What kind of a monster does that?_

He cursed and swore to himself to never do it again. Yet in the absence of being able to force her, how in hells was he expected to persuade her to cancel the wedding?

The day was warm and the grass soft. Noises of mock battles were muffled and blended into the background of whistling wind, birdsong and an occasional dog barking. Looking high up towards the blue sky Sandor could imagine sitting by the graveyard in the Quiet Isle after a morning of hard labour of digging. He had thought a lot during those serene moments, emptying his water skin and consuming his modest meal, and after finishing both, just sitting there and enjoying tranquillity.

He tried to adopt that same peace of mind now, allowing his mind roam freely and without pressure, absorbing his recent experiences simply and unquestionably and letting his mind digest what they told him.

 _Relax._

Deep breaths, his chest heaving as he filled it with crisp clean air allowing it to sink in, seep through his body, purify him.

He sat so still that a lazy bee took his nose as a resting place and settled on it like on a perch, tickling him as it crawled across its high bridge. He flinched and the bee flew away, its buzz soothing in his ears.

 _...what has she told you?_

Sun warmed his limbs and face, its bright orb ingrained behind his closed eyelids. The scent of earth and wood in his nostrils.

 _...what does she want?_

Her hand on his arm, neither heavy nor forceful but feather light - preventing him leaving.

 _...she looked at me without fear or disgust._

She had asked him; why he of all people.

 _...why 'of all people'? Why me?_

She had come to him, when she had thought him feel poorly.

 _...she held on to my cloak as if it meant something to her._

She had not been angry but…sad, when he had betrayed her trust.

 _...she told me she held me in her heart._

Already once Sandor had looked into the precipice of impossible but had not dared to venture deeper, choosing logic instead. Mayhap…mayhap, this time, he should choose differently?

He rested his head against the tree, its bark uneven but soft pillow.

 _I could tell her about The Gods Will. She might believe me._

He had questioned himself why it had been _he_ who had been chosen as the tool of the old gods. Was it because he was the only one who was bold enough to tell her what needed to be told?

Or was the reason something else altogether?

Sandor had tried reasoning, he had tried force. He could try telling about the gods – or he could try to tell the other truth – the one he had denied from himself.

If he failed again he would have another day after that to try, and one after that, and one after that. He _should_ try the first approach first. Or he could risk it with the second.

As a warrior and as a man he had gambled many times, chosen the bold path, the risky strategy. He had done that with cold calculation and with certain indifference in regards to the outcome and so far, he had mostly won. Yet before there had been only his life and limb at a stake, whereas now the stakes were higher – much, much higher.

His soul, his self-worth, the pitch-black remnants of his human heart.

* * *

The sun went behind the cloud and the shadow reached Sandor on his spot, its cold chill rousing him. Slowly he got to his feet, a giant rising from the undergrowth.

He had made up his mind.

* * *

Once again the feeling of purpose now that he had made his decision filled Sandor with determination and put any possible doubts at bay. At least for the time being.

He needed to torment Brienne further, unfortunately, no two ways about it. If Sansa left with him, it was better if Jaime had someone talking sense to him, someone he would listen. Besides, the two of them deserved each other. Playing a matchmaker was not something Sandor had ever contemplated finding himself doing and despite the gravity of the situation, he grinned.

Life worked in mysterious ways indeed.

Brienne was where he knew her to be. Not bothering with a subtle approach Sandor walked straight to her.

"You think this a useful thing, helping at all?" he said, gesturing towards her as she tried to wipe the tears from her cheek with her sleeve.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Clegane." Her red-rimmed eyes and red nose gave her away and she knew it.

"Bawling. Never has caught a man and never will. Why don't you just tell him how you feel?" Sandor edged closer, settling on a bench near her. As much as he knew that he was actually helping her, he was still wary about inadvertently unleashing her fury and stayed at a safe distance.

"Who?"

"You know who, don't pretend you do not. And if you think he doesn't care about you, you've got it wrong. Why else would a grown man fondle and stare at the clothing of a woman - unless he had feelings for her?"

If it was possible for her to get any more rigid, she did, raising her head up.

"A woman's clothing?"

"Aye, the head ribbon or whatever it is that you use to tie your hair back." Instinctively Brienne lifted her hand and wiped it around her head, noticing that her hair was loose. She looked at her empty hand in amazement.

"What are you saying?"

"Don't you have ears, woman? I have seen him holding a piece of your clothing and sniffing it like a dog in heat – or a bloody lion. Staring at it with sheepish eyes. He cares about you, more than you think."

He saw Brienne had a hard time believing it, but there was a glimmer of something new in her eyes as she fixed them on him. It made Sandor tense; he knew he was playing with somebody's feelings and it didn't sit well with him. Aye, throw a horde of enemies against him and he could slaughter them without blinking an eye, but all this toying with emotions – it was not his thing. Yet if it helped him to complete his mission, he had no choice but to forge on.

"I have seen him going out of his mind when he thought harm had come to you." It was a slight exaggeration of course – Sandor hadn't seen it himself, but hearing about it was good enough.

"You are talking out of turn and saying nonsensical things," Brienne said trying to gather her dignity. Sandor could almost see how she raised her walls to hide that faint flicker of hope she had shown earlier. He persisted.

"What if the Kingslayer was not to marry Lady Sansa? What would you say to that?"

What followed was the same argument as the day before, Sandor telling how only people of action got what they wanted, Brienne defending the honourable way; Sandor reasoning how unnecessary Jaime's chosen path was, Brienne stubbornly justifying it. When Sandor saw the painful grimace on Brienne's face telling him what was coming next he cut her short.

"And he doesn't care for her – doesn't love her." The word was thick and incongruous in his mouth and he hardly got it out. _Love._ Had he ever said the word out loud? He suspected not. And yet he had to, as Brienne was a maid and believed in such things even if she looked more like a warrior. Inside that hard steel beat a soft heart, that much Sandor had learned, and it thrived on soft words.

Brienne seemed to share his apprehension about his language as she stared at him dumbfounded. Or maybe it was the message he had just delivered.

"He doesn't?"

"No. He cares – loves – another." Sandor felt like a fool standing there, talking about _love_ of all things. Yet over the last few days he had learned more about it than he had ever thought possible.

For example, that it existed.

Brienne clenched her jaw but said nothing – for a while. Then her self-control broke.

"Another?"

"What did I just tell you? He loves you, you stupid woman! What does it take to get that into your skull?"

Sandor was fast losing his temper but seeing an expression of ultimate desolation on Brienne's face restrained him.

"He can't. He won't. You are badly mistaken I'm afraid. And you japing with me about such serious matter is not…is not right."

Brienne's anger, this time, was more subdued than previously – mayhap he had succeeded in unsettling her way too much for her to put up more than feeble resistance. Her emotions, however, were clear as a day on her open face; suspicion, hopefulness, uncertainty, frustration.

Had he failed her? Instead of encouraging her to take action had he stepped too far and broken this rare woman?

Not knowing what else to do Sandor got up and turned to leave.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Brienne tone was flat and she was crouching on her seat as if expecting him to give her a final blow of mercy after teasing her into a corner with his words. He looked at her over his shoulder.

"Figured you should know. So if Jaime happens to need you, you don't shy away from him because of some misplaced notions of unworthiness or other such nonsense."

Sandor felt her eyes bore at his back for a long time during his slow walk towards the keep.

* * *

On his way to the Great Hall Sandor stopped by the betting crowd.

"Twenty golden dragons on Yrin to win," he shouted. As before, all eyes turned on him, disbelieving.

With a heavy purse of coins dangling at his side, he continued his journey. Enough coin to support them for a long while should they have to stay away. _But only if she agrees._ And there were no guarantees for that. Still, it was pleasing to hear the jingle of coins rubbing against each other.

* * *

Next, he went to look for Jaime.


	11. Day Five - Part 2

**Author's Notes:** Sandor's "to do" list: Brienne - tick! Jaime - tick?

* * *

Jaime looked up when Sandor dropped down next to him.

"Won't do you any good, only sniffing at it. You want to be sniffing the woman herself, don't you?"

Jaime frowned. "What the hells are you talking about, Sandor?"

Sandor pointed at the piece of cloth in his hands. "Brienne of Tarth. The Warrior Maiden. Brienne the Beauty."

"Have you been drinking already? You must be, from the drivel you are spewing. Go soak your head in the bucket; I have no need for drunkards today." Jaime was not angry, not yet, only annoyed. He tossed the cloth away, pretending not to care where it landed.

"If I were drunk, would I have just been talking to her, weeping her eyes out as she was near the armoury?"

That got Jaime's attention and he started to rise angrily. "What the hells have you done with her?"

Sandor saw that his words only riled Jaime so he changed his approach.

"No need to twitch like a lion in the ant nest. I did nothing, only spoke with her. She would never admit it to your face, but she is unhappy about this marriage."

"Brienne? But why? She has only supported me in this, was the first to congratulate me when I told her about the betrothal."

Sandor noticed Jaime didn't refer to the official announcement of their engagement, and not to 'us' – he must have told Brienne in private before the news became public.

"She would say so, would she not? She may not be practiced in the ways of pretence, but she knows when to keep her mouth shut."

Jaime frowned, still suspicious. "How come you seem to know so much about what she thinks, all of a sudden?"

"I have eyes in my head, don't I? I have seen her staring after you and it is not only a sparring partner she is longing for. And how she lights up when you come near. Blushes like a maid, almost as prettily."

"She _is_ a maid, and beautiful - in her own way. Who are you to talk about looks anyway, you burned brute." Jaime's voice had turned ice cold, the tone of it known to make experienced battle commanders shake in their boots. Only when Sandor leaned back and raised his eyebrow, did Jaime catch up on his tone and took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax with a visible effort. Pretending indifference he pushed his chair back, and sensing his advantage Sandor leaned forward, forging on.

"If she is so pretty and a high-born as well, and the only heir to her father's lands on the Isle of Tarth, why don't you marry _her_ instead? Haven't Lannisters already had their turn with the Starks?"

Sandor would have never believed to see the day, but Jaime actually blushed at that. And not only that, but he looked away, refusing to meet Sandor's stare.

 _To see the Kingslayer embarrassed because of a maid…who'd have believed?_

Sandor pulled back. "So you _have_ thought about it? What happened, did she refuse?"

Jaime gathered his composure. "It is not a matter of yours so you'll do well to stay out of it. Lady Brienne is a woman of honour and she has made promises she has to keep above anything else. She is not going to be distracted from them, and besides, Lady Sansa and I have an understanding that will benefit both of our houses."

Once again Sandor got an impression that Jaime's words were more to assure himself than Sandor. Tapping his fingers against the table Jaime continued at the low voice, "Not that you'd understand such matters anyway."

Deciding to bring matters on the firmer ground Sandor let the subject of Brienne drop for the moment.

"Mayhap I know none of those things, but tell me Jaime; the wolf-boy being back, is this marriage between you and Lady Sansa as important as it was before?"

Once again they went through the lines of reasoning he knew from before. This time, however, Sandor didn't leave it at that. He couldn't leave a single stone unturned, not this time. _Not today._

"So if you wanted, you could cancel this wedding and none would be the worse off for it?"

Jaime's eyes narrowed and he looked at Sandor sharply. "Why do you ask? Has Sansa said something to you?"

Sandor shrugged his shoulders. "Of course not, she wouldn't confide to a man like me. I just want to know why you are still hell-bent on this union when I know, you know and even Brienne knows that you don't really want it. And I don't have to be a betting man to say that Sansa knows it too."

"Wait, what, why are you bringing Brienne into this again? And as for Sansa, I wouldn't be surprised if she _did_ confide in you. I still can't imagine what she went through in King's Landing, Joffrey making those buffoons in his so-called Kingsguard beat her, that ungrateful little prick. And you there, protecting the damsel in distress."

"Protecting? Has Sansa said something?" It was Sandor's turn to shift uncomfortably on his seat.

He had gathered that Sansa had told Jaime _something_ about King's Landing, but what exactly, and what about his own role, he had no notion of. It mustn't have been too damning though, considering that he hadn't been thrown out of Winterfell. Still hearing Jaime jump so easily to his assumption made him wonder what Sansa has shared.

"She has her secrets and she doesn't share all of them with me. But she has said on many occasions how she considered you her only support there at the time. Surely you knew that?"

To hear Sansa talking about him in that light to another felt strange. He, a lady's protector and support?

 _Back to the task at hand,_ Sandor had to remind himself before getting too caught on what Sansa's admissions might mean.

"So what prevents you from stopping this farce?" He was perfectly aware that what he was asking was madness when so much had gone into the wedding; the planning, the preparations, the swarm of guests that had descended upon the keep from all corners of the realm. Yet he also knew Jaime to be a soldier through and through. Seasoned campaigners didn't only follow the original strategies and what had been done so far - but also what _needed_ to be done when things didn't go as planned or the situation changed. The very best tacticians were ready to change everything in the heartbeat, even if it meant some sacrifices and wasted effort.

Jaime only looked at him, his eyes hardening.

"If you think I could be such an unchivalrous oaf that I would leave my bride at the sept at our wedding, you have another thing coming. I could never offend Sansa that way. What kind of a message would it be to the good people of North?"

For once Sandor found himself missing old Jaime, the selfish rogue, who might have thought nothing of such gross dismissal of societal norms.

"I know what kind of message that would send to the Maid of Tarth. Don't think she would be unhappy about the events; might even reconsider her promises, adjust them to the changed conditions."

Having apparently reached his limit Jaime stood up and waved his hand at Sandor.

"I don't know what has come over you, Sandor, but you have just crossed so many lines that it is not even amusing anymore. For our longstanding friendship's sake I will ignore it this time, but hear me well; never speak to me about this again."

Sandor watched him stride away purposefully, having picked up Brienne's ribbon into his tightly clutched fist, wondering if what he has just started would lead to a disaster even worse than the day before. First to make Brienne angry at him, then piss Jaime off…

 _Way to go, Clegane._

* * *

Jaime came to him at midday meal, seemingly having chosen to ignore their earlier discussion.

Of course Sandor acceded to his request to escort Sansa.

To his immense surprise there was a new desire in him; he actually wanted to be presentable - probably for the first time in his life caring how he looked. He went to his room to change into his wedding fineries, and a swipe of hand across the back of his head suggested it might be good for him to also comb his hair. Although he bathed regularly and took care of his cleanliness, looks had never been a consideration, and it felt strange to be even contemplating such silliness.

A few tangles were quickly cleared but in the process Sandor's fingers brushed the burned side of his face, nails rasping against the hard scar tissue. A reminder of who he was, how he looked, and how not the finest cloth or the most meticulous grooming would chance any of that dropped him quickly enough back to the ground from his musings.

Curses loud enough to startle the birds nesting on the windowsill echoed from the walls of the room when the comb hit the wall, followed by slamming the door behind him.

 _Fuck!_

* * *

Sandor wanted to see Sansa with his cloak again, just to be sure he hadn't missed anything or misinterpreted it. His hiding nook against the wall served him well enough again, and no, there was no mistaking it.

He heard the same exchange as earlier, saw the maid walking indignantly to Sansa's bedroom, and witnessed Sansa burrowing her face against that filthy cloak, breathing it in while clutching it against her chest. Her hand slid over the wrinkled heap and she whispered something against the cloth – what, he couldn't even imagine.

Although this time Sandor was prepared, the proof of his own eyes telling him that she might be thinking of him fondly was still unsettling. Unbelievable and unsettling. And it was with infuriatingly shaking hands he knocked on her door, swallowing hard when he saw her. The face that had become so familiar to him over the last little while; its expressions of sadness, anger, longing, concentration and most of all how it focused on him, like a beacon in the dark.

Somehow he managed to stutter through the necessary greetings and get them on their way, his mind working furiously all the way to the Godswood. He had only a short time to try to convince her, and knowing that in her mind they had exchanged only a few words over the last few months, he didn't want to scare her away too early.

 _Later._

As before, it was a clear, crisp day and the air was rich with smells and sounds of the forest. Once again Sandor felt the peace of it calm him and he breathed in deeply, focussing on the rhythm. Once again it was tempting to just ignore what had transpired and focus on this task alone, do as he was told and then leave. However, he could afford no such luxury and eventually he acknowledged that he couldn't postpone his mission any longer - he had to start somewhere.

Might as well be an apology – best to swallow that bitter pill first. Or as close as he could get to it.

"Little bird, I haven't been fair to you."

Sansa jerked her head back and slowed down. She had stolen subtly glances at him as before, but Sandor speaking up seemed to take her by surprise.

"Fair to me? Pray tell, what do you mean by that?"

"I should have come to you before. I shouldn't have avoided you as I did."

Sansa stopped mid-stride, confusion clear on her face.

"You… I… Yes, you have, I mean, I have noticed. Why did you?"

"If you thought I didn't see you there, at the training yard, the armoury, up the walls, you were wrong. I knew it every time. Every fucking time. I didn't even have to _see_ you to know you were there."

Sansa was looking at him, eyes narrowed, waiting for some grand revelation no doubt. How could he explain to her what had kept him away, when it wasn't fully clear for himself?

"I didn't want to disturb you." _Hells, that came out all wrong._ She would think him some fucking knight, mindful to a lady's needs when it had been his own needs and self-preservation he had paid heed to.

Sandor tried again. If he wanted to tread the path of honesty he couldn't do things by half.

"Letting you near once, I would have wanted more," he growled instead, his jaw set squarely in a feeble attempt to not appear weak.

 _That_ threw Sansa aback. Whatever she had been expecting, this was clearly not it. She blushed and turned her head away, hastening her steps.

 _Give her time. She doesn't know what I know, or what we have shared._

Sandor followed her with ease. They reached the heart-tree in silence, but instead of settling to her prayers Sansa had more questions.

"Why would you say such a thing? Why now?"

"You know that you don't have to marry the Kingslayer, do you?"

Sansa pressed her lips together. "What about it? What is the meaning of this? You are right, you have avoided me for months, ever since you arrived here, and now suddenly you say things that are not proper." Her gaze was challenging and her bold stance familiar to Sandor from…what day had it been?

Sandor sighed in his mind thinking of the discussion he had to have with her – again. And started his well-practiced arguments about why her marriage to Jaime was not needed for political reasons - Sansa had to know that the initial motive behind the union was not valid anymore.

It was her turn to surprise Sandor though.

"I thought of that, when Rickon came back. I could see the need was less dire then – although it is still good for the North to have a stable leadership until Rickon becomes a lord more than just by name."

"Why not call it off then?"

"Why would I? What else is there for me in my future, but a marriage as for any other high-born lady? I am lucky as this time as I have a say in it myself. And Jaime is… he is kind, and he is no fool. He will not insist on making me obey him. And eventually, we'll have children. And I do want them - children of my own." Sansa faced him squarely, head held high. "You may not believe it, but Cersei Lannister made me realise how important children are. She and my mother"

"Cersei?" Sandor queried. He knew the tale but he had to act surprised, as Sansa would expect that.

"Yes, Cersei. Soon after I had flowered she told me that although I may not love my lord husband, I will always love my children. And I know that to be true. Even though there was love between my father and mother, the mother's love she had for us was something special."

Sansa wasn't finished - as he knew she wouldn't be.

"Cersei also said that love is a sweet poison, the kind of love between a man and a woman – especially for a woman. Better for me not to fall for it, as nobody is willing to love me for my own sake anyway. Only for the sake of my title, my house or my lands. So you see, I might as well marry someone who is a friend to me."

"I don't care a shit about your title, your house or these godforsaken lands."

A deep, shuddering breath and Sansa's hand flew on her chest – but Sandor didn't waver. If he wanted, he still could have back-paddled, implied that his statement was meant as a general observation only, that there were bound to be many lords and knights who would care for her for her own sake, could have told her that there was no such thing as love and if she still thought so she was more fool than he had thought. He could have done any or all of those things.

But he didn't.


	12. Day Five - Part 3

**Author's Notes** : My apologies to all who expected everything to be miraculously solved only because Sandor confessed his feelings… Sorry!

* * *

Sansa's lips moved but no words came out. Still clutching at the front of her dress her eyes darted wildly to and fro, and she shook her head slowly almost unnoticeably. Her tenseness was visible, her shoulders raised and stiff.

"I…I know you don't care about such things, but for most men they are important. They seek a bride who can bring them one or the other – and I can understand that. Even Jaime. That is just the way it is."

So - she had chosen to ignore implications of Sandor's words. In any other circumstances that would have been an as clear sign to Sandor as any that it was time for him to back down. Yet circumstances were not normal, and he simply _couldn't_ do that.

" _I_ care about you for your own sake," he continued, stubbornly.

Mouth agape, cheeks flushed, frozen on her spot Sansa stared at him. For a long time neither of them spoke; time that seemed like hours for Sandor – _days_ \- but probably was only a few minutes. Then a timid, shaky voice.

"Care about me? You mean you think you owe me your protection?"

Sandor had one more chance to back off. He chose not to do it.

"Aye, that too, but more. Much more. Hells, girl, I don't have the bloody words for what it is! I only know it _is_."

Never in his life had Sandor wanted to be able to talk smoothly as other men did; to tell her that she was all he cared about, that he had been a lost cause ever since… King's Landing? Or even earlier, since Winterfell? That he had told himself not to be so fucking stupid, had tried to explain it away as a simple lust after a pretty girl, had wanted to deny it and avoid _her_ at all costs… because if he didn't, there was a hell to pay for his peace of mind. And that if there was even a minuscule chance that she could… but she wouldn't, she couldn't…

"What is?" Hardly a whisper, that blue gaze still not letting him go.

Sandor threw his hands up in the air and swore out loud.

"This! You! Me! Us!"

"Us?"

Another long silence. Then Sansa sighed and backed a few steps, taking a hold of the nearest tree. Her form slumped and she looked away, staring at her hand resting on a trunk, eyes wide with wonderment as if that was the most unusual sight she had ever seen.

"All this time… when you came here, and talked to me only when you had to…avoided me, making me think that you despised me and wanted nothing to do with the stupid little bird from your past…"

Sandor cleared his throat which felt like it was stuffed with dry leaves. "Yes."

Sansa continued to stare at her hand, picking the bark. She was meticulous about it, not picking randomly but in neat lines, dropping the discarded pieces on the ground, one after another.

"And why do you tell me now?"

"Because I can't stand by and see you marry another."

Quickly, Sansa raised her head. Sandor swallowed.

"Not that I… it is not my concern and I know you'll marry someone anyway and there's nothing I can do about it, but -" Sandor had no idea how anything could come out of this, but he had run out of fucks to give. "I had to let you know. That's all."

Sandor had lived through many times that magical moment just before a battle, when the clash was inevitable, the combatants ready, and time stopped still and everyone in the field seemed to be holding their collective breath – only waiting for a sign, a movement, a shouted order or someone's nerves breaking in an act that would break the spell and get the bloodpath started. He felt like that the very moment, waiting…for what? A sign, a slaughter to begin?

In the meanwhile Sansa had slid slowly down against the tree until she sat on the ground, not caring about the damp earth or scrunching of her skirts. The last piece of tree bark was still in her hands and she turned it around, contemplatively.

"And then…what?"

Sandor clutched the hilt of his sword, an involuntary gesture. He had to ask _now_. He had given her all the logical reasons, all the arguments why it made sense. Now it was time to jump into unknown, illogical and mad. Whatever followed.

"Come away with me. Now. I am not expecting anything, so you know, not for you to feel the same. But if you trust me at all – leave with me."

Sansa was still fascinated with the thing in her hand and so Sandor continued.

"I asked you once before, but I fucked it up. And it was different; you were a prisoner and I offered to release you and protect you. Nothing more. Gods forbid you were just a child then! But you are not a prisoner anymore; you are at home and have a keep full of men at your beck and call. You don't need me - I have nothing to offer you."

Only after saying those words it truly hit Sandor how doomed his quest was. He had nothing, absolutely _nothing_ to give to her. She didn't even need his sword, the only thing of worth he had ever had in life. And even so…

"But still I ask."

They had been so still for so long that a curious squirrel had edged closer to one of the nearby trees and now observed them from a tree branch, its nose twitching as it took in the sight of the two of them. Seemingly satisfied that they didn't present a threat, it picked a pine cone and started to pluck it for seeds.

Finally, Sansa lifted her head. Several shades of feelings seemed to find expression in her features; anguish, confusion, disbelief, sadness – and something that looked like joy, but it flashed so quickly that Sandor wasn't sure whether it truly had been there. After that cavalcade or emotions the one that stayed was what he had not expected; sorrow.

"I used to wish I had left with you when you first made that offer." She bit her lip. "I liked to think you would have saved me from…all that came after."

"It was right you didn't. I was fucked up and I would have hurt you. One way or another."

"So you say and yet you are not the kind of man. I suspected it even then. You know, I prayed for you, for the Mother to gentle the rage inside you. And I see she did it."

"Well, she took her bloody good time. And a good chunk of my leg, and burdened me with a Brother who had more patience than sense," Sandor muttered.

Silence fell upon them again. Sansa returned to stubbornly stare at the piece of bark in her hand.

"Twice – twice have you come to me on your own volition, during all this time." Her voice was steady but strained. "The second time you did, to tell me you would understand if I wanted to send you away, I thought you wanted to set things right between us. That it was only the first step, and we would talk more."

She looked up at Sandor, wavering slightly before continuing.

"I came to you so many times after that, in places where you could have come to me should you have so wished. There I was, standing in the yard or at the battlements, all alone, waiting…offering you a chance to talk to me without anyone hearing us."

Sandor shifted his stance. Yes, he had seen her then. Felt her presence.

Sansa's cheeks were flushed and her tone sharpened.

"I couldn't come to you as I was the lady of the keep and you would have had no chance but to hear me. It had to be _you_ coming to me. But you never did." A dry chortle that held no humour. "And yet I tried to approach you once or twice – and when you saw me coming you turned and walked away. _Ran_ away. So I thought – no, I _knew_ that you wanted nothing to do with me. And I left you in peace."

"I am sorry, little bird."

"And now you choose this time, this very day, to talk to me about these things. And ask me to drop everything I have planned for my life and go with you. But I don't even know you!" There was a flash of anger in that last statement, but it subsided soon, leaving behind only that same weary sadness he had seen before. "I saw you were a different man when you came here, and I was glad. And I wanted to get to know the new you. But you never gave me a chance."

"You can get to know me if you come with me."

A deep sigh, almost a shudder. All emotions had drained from her face and it had turned to a blank mask. The same he had seen on her too many times.

"I… I can't."

Feeling awkward Sandor lumbered down to her level, bending his knee so he could face her eye to eye.

"Yes you can." He took her fingers into his grasp and willed his own strength and surety to flow through them to her. She stared at him but didn't pull away.

"You don't want to marry him. I know you don't, y _ou_ know you don't. Tell me you do and I'll tell you that you are still as bad a liar as you were in King's Landing. Why do you insist on going on with this mummery?" Sansa's hand trembled but he didn't let it go.

"I couldn't do it to Jaime. He has been kind and honourable towards me, and we have an understanding. This marriage is not only for us but for the North, and things have progressed too far for me to change it now. And I couldn't insult him by leaving him on the day of our wedding."

"Yes, you could. He would understand, he doesn't love you either." Sandor knew it was not the thing to say to a woman, any woman, but he had to. He hissed silently and prepared for Sansa's indignant reaction - which didn't come. She only looked at him through that impermeable mask and squeezed his hand gently.

"I think I know it already. Yet it doesn't change anything. I gave him my word. I have to go through with it."

* * *

Cutting her prayers short they walked back in silence as there was nothing more to say. Sandor asked her once more, twice more, searching for a way to make her change her mind, but after recovering from her initial shock Sansa had gathered her composure and retreated into herself. She walked fast, a few steps ahead of him, her shoulders slumped and posture stooped. Sandor knew he had lost – and as he could not force her, he only had to accept it. Mayhap the next day… as he was convinced there was going to be the next day all over again.

How things could be different then, he didn't know, feeling numb and lost. What could he say, what could he do?

As they reached the keep and Sansa turned to thank him – never forgetting her manners - he snatched her hand to squeeze it once more.

"Come with me, tonight. Before the ceremony. I will take you away, away from all of this." Was it desperation that made his voice so strangled and odd in his ears?

She studied his face. For a moment her facade crumbled, revealing a spirit that wanted to break free, to shatter the fetters of duty and honour, but then it was gone and she was Lady Stark again, composed and restrained.

"I wish you had come to me earlier, I truly do. I don't know what would have happened – but that seems to be the pattern for us. Not knowing what _might_ have been. Yet I have my duty and I shall do it as I know I must." Her eyes glistened but she blinked it away. "Maybe later, once this is over, we may become…friends." Her voice faded away so Sandor could hardly hear the last words.

As crushed as Sandor was, he only nodded and released her. When she started to walk away he called after her in a low voice.

"When tonight you wrap yourself in the direwolf cloak in your rooms, think of this moment. Think if this is what you would like to change, should you have a chance later in life. If you do, send me a word and I will come and you don't have to go through with it."

He was all out of ammunition and this was his last attempt. Mayhap all she needed was some time to contemplate.

Sansa stopped for a second but didn't turn to look at him. Then she continued her walk and disappeared inside the keep, her downturned head the last thing Sandor saw before the heavy door closed behind her.

* * *

There was no word from her, no note or word of mouth. Sandor paced restlessly in his room and listened to every creak and every footstep from the corridor, but none of them came to his door.

And later, when Jaime wrapped his cloak of golden lion around Sansa's shoulders, he could not watch it, staring at the floor instead. His chest felt hollow and empty although his heart was still beating, slowly, rhythmically, but with no joy. Humiliation, unlike any Sandor had felt before, ate his bones.

What kind of a fool had he been, thinking his piss poor arguments and putting himself out there for her could _ever_ be enough – for a lady like Sansa? For a woman who longed for love and family and for someone to care for her – someone worthy of her.

He had gambled – and he had lost.


	13. Day Five - Part 4

**Author's Notes** : Here comes the follow-up to the last somewhat devastating chapter. Surprises? Maybe to some, maybe not so to the others…

I also have to regrettably mention that the next few chapters may be a bit further apart. I am leaving for a month away in abroad; first work, then holiday, and it means busy times ahead – and not so much time for writing as normally. I try to work on this as I want to, but alas, can't give any guarantees…

But my consolation is that I believe I have left the story (and you, dear readers) into a good place… Or at least I think so – let me know what you think!

* * *

The whole wedding ceremony was the cruellest Sandor had gone through - and he had endured a few by now. He stared at the floor or straight ahead resolutely, having accepted his loss. He had tried and he had failed. Mayhap tomorrow he could try again – but how?

Brienne was devastated; he could see it and feel it rolling off her in heavy waves of despair. Sandor felt a pang thinking of how he must have raised her hopes, only for them to be painfully dashed again. When he tried to catch her gaze she refused to meet it and looked away. This time, she didn't even look at Jaime, not a single time during the whole ceremony.

Jaime, on the other hand, glanced at her several times, to the point where the wedding guests started to notice it and strained their necks trying to see where he was looking.

Then it was done. Sansa Stark was no more, in her place standing Sansa Lannister – once again.

* * *

The feast was not much better. Sandor tried to focus on his food but even drink didn't tempt him this time, wine tasting as bland as the rest of the offerings in his mouth. However, it was better than seeing the end of the evening sober, so he waved to a servant for more wine. Glancing at the other side of the room he saw the hulking form of Brienne, shoulders hunched and face expressionless. The man next to her tried to engage her in conversation but was met with apathy and soon gave up, turning to more talkative companions.

Sandor doubted she would stay in the hall until the end of the festivities and the knowledge that he alone might have to ensure the orderly procession of the bedding filled him with trepidation.

Samwell Tarly sat at the high dais, his form as unmistakable as Brienne's but for different reasons. Seeing Sandor's eyes at him he raised his goblet and bowed his head jovially as an acknowledgment of the strange friendship they had formed. Sandor returned his gesture, pondering if mayhap the first thing he should do the next day – the _same_ day – would be to go to him and spill the whole story out once again. Not the part about Sansa, of course, but the rest.

He could ask the good maester to join him on his mission to convince Sansa – surely she would believe the world of a learned man like him? _IF_ the learned man in question would believe his story, that was. Yes, Sam had read about it in the book, but to hear that it was happening to the known nonbeliever like him… Sandor sighed and picked up his goblet once again, finding it empty.

As the servant with the wine casket came about he lifted it and doing so noticed Jaime and Sansa on the dais deep in conversation. He had tried to avoid looking at them, bitter taste of his defeat still too sour, but the curious way they sat caught his attention. Their heads were bowed towards each other and from the seriousness of their stances it was clear that whatever they were discussing, it was not idle chat about the food or the musicians. Sansa seemed to take care of most of the talking, Jaime nodding and opening his mouth every now and then to say something in turn.

What was even more interesting was how young Rickon too was drawn into the folds of discussion. He was sitting next to Jaime in the place of honour as was fitting for the young Lord of Winterfell, but being young and unaccustomed to big feasts he had been restless – as in all the previous weddings – and been fidgeting in his seat and shovelling food into his mouth as fast as he could, clearly waiting for the first opportunity to run away. Now, however, he too was listening to whatever Sansa had to say with rapt attention.

He was a good looking boy with distinct Tully looks, his unruly auburn hair a few shades brighter than Sansa's. Yet it was not that alone that had earned him Sandor's grudging regard.

 _The boy has spirit. Wish his sister had some too._

Yet even thinking of it felt unfair. Sansa _did_ have spirit, lots of it. And courage. And determination - too much for her own good.

 _Stop it._

Sandor wondered fleetingly what could be so interesting as to hold the young lord in such rapture, even making him smile at her sister in the way that was so much like his sister the she-wolf's – on those rare occasions when Arya had flashed it during the time they had travelled together. There was also something else that caught his eye as he was observing the high dais – much to this own chagrin, as he would have preferred to look anywhere but there.

It was Sansa.

Something in her was different. Gone was the resigned mood and melancholy Sandor had witnessed in the previous feasts. Her head was bobbing and her cheeks flamed – gods, she looked stunning! Had his misplaced confessions made her realise how fitting _this_ match was, after all? Was that why she was so radiant?

 _If so, good for her. Mayhap you did her a service after all, dog._

Sandor turned away and emptied his goblet in a few mouthfuls, seeing from the corner of his eye the now married couple standing up and leaving the room. So, they had decided to forgo the bedding. It was a surprise, but maybe after the day's events Sansa didn't feel comfortable about being groped by strangers.

 _Or being seen by me to be undressed._

Sandor was halfway through another drink when Sansa's maid approached him. She didn't seem too happy about her task but approached him fearlessly and bent to talk into his ear to be heard above the noise.

"My lady would see you for a moment if it please you."

Surprised, Sandor almost choked on his drink.

 _If it please me? Why?_

There not really being any other options but to heed the call, he got up, perplexed. It was much too late for her to take up his offer, so what could it be?

Passing the carvers carrying big platters of roast boar Sandor cast one last look back at the feasting hall noticing that Brienne too had been approached by somebody; one of the castellan's young assistants. The lady warrior raised her slouched head and stared at the youth uncomprehending, then glanced at the empty seats at the dais. Sandor saw her mouth moving when she spoke but could not make out the words over the humdrum of the room.

Stepping out of the double doors at the back of the hall following the maid's lead, Sandor saw Brienne rising to her full height and stepping out of her seat to follow the young man.

 _What the fuck is going on?_

* * *

The maid guided him to a small waiting room near the Great Hall and left, throwing an openly curious look at him before closing the door behind her. The room was warm and cosy, an informal den for casual meetings with the members of the household. The walls were lined with shelves full of books, ledgers, ink pots, boxes and pouches and other miscellaneous items. Sandor noticed a stack of letters and a long dagger without a handle, its blade made of odd shiny black material, glinting dully in the candle light. The whole room had a feeling of informality, of a busy household going on with its business, and Sandor wondered what was the reason he had been called there – on that very evening.

And there, at the back of the room stood Sansa, looking out of the window. Her face was in the shadows but her stance was straight and very, very alert. Once they were alone, she turned towards Sandor and clasped her hands in front of her. It was a gesture Sandor had noticed her doing when she wanted to assert herself but was a bit unsure how to do it.

"Sandor."

Her voice was steady – but after saying his name she stopped and squeezed her hands together so hard her knuckles turned white, he observed.

"You called, my lady." Sandor stood stiff, unsure of his position and what was expected of him. Clearly the moments in the Godswood had not changed anything, so he must be here only as a retainer called in to do…something. And he was expected to do it without a question. Well, they might see about that. A dull resentment exacerbated by the fast succession of drinks he had downed made him sullen and he raised his chin, challenging her.

Sansa flinched slightly but came to him nonetheless. She had to crane her neck to face him but Sandor didn't look down, not wanting to make it any easier for her. It was childish and pitiful but he couldn't help it.

"So I did. I wanted to ask you something, ask if you would like to do…this thing for me."

"What thing?" Sandor was wary and somewhat uncomfortable standing there and talking to the _wife_ of the Kingslayer. That moniker hung above their heads and changed the tone of even a simple conversation.

Sansa took a deep breath and looked at the floor, getting as close to squirming as a lady with her impeccable schooling and manners could - but then squared her shoulders and lifted her gaze back to him.

"You are right. You were right all along. If I go any further, I will regret it for the rest of my life. I can't undo what has been done so far, but I can change what will happen next. Sandor, will you take me away? Now, tonight."

 _The fuck?_

Sandor was startled – no, he was bloody _shocked_. This was the last thing he might have expected.

"What about Jaime? The wedding? In the eyes of the Seven, you are his wife now."

"I know. But I have been married before and it was annulled. Jaime assures me it can be done again. The High Septon wants to revive remnants of the Faith Militant and both the Lannisters and Starks are against it. Preventing this marriage would please him as it would divide the opposition to his plans – that's what Jaime said. He also said that Tyrion would be able to help in securing the annulment, and soon."

Sandor's head was swirling. _Jaime said that?_

"So your husband is fine for you to run away on your wedding night - with another man?"

Sansa pulled away but didn't go far. "So he is. After the ceremony at the feast I asked him what he really thought of this marriage. I don't know what made me say it - but he took it from there. It was almost as if he had only waited for me to say something to allow him to tell me his own mind."

She sighed, but her tone held a hint of amusement. "If I was vain, I might think he was perhaps even too eager to think of a way to get rid of me! But he thinks there is a way – but that requires us to part company right now, before the wedding night. That means that we don't have much time. So I will ask again, will you take me away…or will you not?"

"Does the High Septon believe in the Seven? Of course I will. Just tell me where," Sandor growled, still reeling from the impact.

 _This can't be happening._

Sansa smiled and it was such a sincere and open smile – and he had to believe that it _was_ happening _;_ she had made her decision and she had asked _him_.

"We won't be long, a few days at most, only until this thing," she gestured vaguely in the direction of the feasting hall, "has died down. Then we'll come back. As to where, I don't know. Would you have any suggestions?"

Sandor didn't have to think twice. "There is an old hunting lodge a few hours' ride away. It is slightly damaged and unused these days, small, but still decent. It will do."

"Good. May I ask you to collect what we might need and ready the horses? My maid will help me with food and blankets and I will get my own necessities. Can you meet us at the East Gate when you are ready so we can leave this place?"

As if through a haze Sandor nodded his assent and turned to leave, still without touching her. He wasn't sure what exactly this turn of events meant - mayhap she only needed a companion, a trusted man, someone who wouldn't ask too many questions and supported her decision. If so, that would be enough. No reason to get his hopes up for anything more.

That _had_ to be enough.

When Sandor strolled out of the room the heavy burden he had been carrying for the last few bizarre days was lifted from his shoulders. His feet hardly touched the ground, he was floating in the air, buoyed by the thrill of success – and maybe even a bit by the thoughts of what _might_ lie ahead. The maid hurried after him but he didn't notice her, nor the crowd of revellers who cleaved in front of him to make way. His mind was already buzzing with the planning of what he needed to do to get them on the road.

And he smiled. A lopsided half-smile, outwardly not much, but inside he was howling to the moon.

* * *

On his way to his room Sandor ran into Jaime, who was strolling along one of the quieter corridors in deep though. He almost _literally_ ran into him, only Sandor's own quick sidestep preventing Jaime to slam his downturned head right against Sandor's chest.

"Watch where you are going, will you."

"Uh, oh – sure." Jaime straightened and seeing who it was, his expression changed. Where it had been thoughtful and absorbed before, now it was attentive.

"Clegane."

Not sure if it was just a greeting, Sandor sought to step past him after nodding his head in greeting, but Jaime prevented it by laying his hand on his arm.

"The man of the hour – or is it?" He studied Sandor, searched his face for…something. Whatever it was, Sandor's passive countenance gave nothing away, that he was sure of. "Was it you?"

"Was I what?"

"Did you speak to Sansa – about the things you spoke to me today? Did you say to her something about Brienne?"

"The fuck would I tell her about Brienne? No, I didn't say a word about her." It was not _exactly_ a lie – he hadn't mentioned Brienne by name.

"But you spoke to her?"

Unsure of how much to reveal Sandor decided the best defence was to attack.

"So you called it off after all? _After_ the wedding, even?"

To Jaime's credit he didn't flinch – on the contrary, he looked rather proud of himself. If his actions wouldn't have been precisely what Sandor had hoped, he might have been peeved by Jaime's smugness.

As it was, he let it pass.

"So she told you – I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Yes, I did – but she was more than eager for it." A corner of his mouth lifted. "For the second time she is renouncing a Lannister husband – if I had a suspicious mind, I might think our good Lady Sansa doesn't care much for the Lannisters."

"She would be in her rights to hate your guts, the lot of you. Once forced by your powergrabbing sire, the second time by her own sense of duty."

"Quite so. And yet, it is not too late."

For an awkward moment they just stood there, Sandor waiting for an opportune moment to continue his journey. So much to do, so little time.

"So did she ask you to take her away for the night?"

"Aye."

"Good." Another moment. "What surprises me in it is that I haven't seen you in her company much. When did you become such good friends again?"

"We are not. Before today I have spoken to her alone exactly two times. She needs someone to help her in this situation and she chose me – and I do what she asks."

That most certainly was _not_ a lie – two times only. When it should have been many, many more.

"How many men are you taking with you?"

Sandor answered without thinking. "None."

Jaime's raised eyebrows made him regret his haste.

"None? Just you and our lady? And where shall you be going?"

"If she wants you to know, I am sure she'll tell you. I am doing what she asks of me, nothing more."

If Jaime's eyebrows could have risen any higher, they would have flown off his forehead.

"Is that so? Well, I suppose it is up to her how she wants to handle this."

Murmuring something about things to do and the hour being late Sandor pushed past Jaime, this time determined not to be stalled any longer. Yet Jaime stepped to block his way once more. His seriousness was disturbingly unusual for someone whose usual attitude hovered between amusement, smugness and cynicism.

"Sandor – should I be worried?"

"About what?"

Another deep scrutiny, the emerald eyes wandering up and down his form. A pinched mouth, an echo of uncertainty.

"To be honest – I don't know." Then Jaime transformed to his usual self, smiled broadly and stepped aside. "You better get on your way then. Don't want to keep the lady waiting, eh?"

Turning around the corner at the end of the corridor Sandor glanced back and saw Jaime still standing there, staring at him, an imperceptible frown furrowing his brow.

* * *

Sandor packed as before, knowing exactly what to take from his previous disastrous attempt. He was relieved knowing that this time, Sansa was taking care of her own packing – no more worrying that his own preparations were inadequate to keep her in comfort. Making a quick work of it, it didn't take a long time before he was out and heading towards the stables. This time, he was going to take Sansa's mare as well and secure a large saddle bag into her saddle to fit Sansa's provisions in.

As he turned the last corner he saw yet another person he would have rather not met that very night – Brienne. Sandor cursed. Wasn't Winterfell really not big enough to keep them out of each other's way?

Steeling himself against the expected barrage of questions along the same line as Jaime's Sandor strolled forward. Yet instead what he met was Brienne silently nodding at him and following him inside, not saying a word. Only when Sandor dropped the bags on the floor and reached for Stranger's bridles did she speak.

"Lady Sansa will ride Willow?"

"Aye."

Without further ado the warrior maid harnessed and saddled the horse Sansa had chosen as her own; a pretty and yet sturdy northern mare with a shiny brown coat and white socks. As they walked the horses out, one after another, Brienne handed the reins of her charge to Sandor.

"You will look after her, won't you?"

"Of course I will," he grumbled, knowing it was not the horse she meant. So, Jaime must have told her what was going on, even about Sandor's involvement. The castellan's apprentice had taken her to Jaime – and they had met again after his run-in with the Kingslayer.

Things were certainly starting to look rather interesting.

"Clegane."

 _Here it comes._

"I don't know exactly what has happened today and why – but it is all because of you, isn't it?" Brienne's big blue eyes – so innocent and so ill-matched with her otherwise manly demeanour – stared at him, trusting and entreating. She was not after answers to whys and wherefores, but only seeking confirmation that she was not living through an improbable dream.

For a moment Sandor was tempted to ask whether Jaime had already confessed his feelings for her, and whether he would spend his wedding night with her instead – but then concluded that it was not his business. Just as it was not their business what was between him and Sansa.

 _What was it, anyway?_

Besides, he suspected that Brienne wouldn't give in so easily. And mayhap even Jaime had much more patience and perseverance that he gave him credit for, not to overwhelm a young maiden with his ardour. After all, he had done the right thing by Sansa.

"Not my doing. Common sense prevailed, rather. Or mayhap the old gods interfered." Sandor couldn't help that last jape, but from the looks of Brienne it was wasted on her.

"In any case, do take good care. We'll see soon again."

"You too. Take care." _'Of him'_ , he could have added had he been unkind, but that would have been too bold and too soon after the wedding.

Leaving Brienne behind Sandor walked at a brisk pace to the agreed meeting place near the East Gate.

The night was still young. For all of them.


	14. Day Five - Part 5

**Author's Notes** : Finally! A new chapter… I am still on my overseas trip, but the most frantic work part is over, and now it is just the usual frantic visits and spending time with family and friends, sprinkled with some work stuff as well… So still not back to 'normal', but I did have just enough time to post this.

As to the question debated at the end of the last chapter - whether the events there were enough to break the curse (blessing?) – all will be revealed now! Hope you enjoy…

* * *

Darkness had blanketed the countryside under its cover by the time they left the keep. Only the silvery glow of a full moon guided their way through the landscape, past sharp shadows and unworldly shapes of the night.

Neither of them spoke but unlike the last time Sandor had lived it through, the silence was companionable, easy. Their pace being slow by the necessity of the darkness they could have conversed, but there was no need.

While leading the way on the road leading towards the north Sandor glanced behind his shoulder every now and then as if to check that she was still following her - and every time Sansa turned towards him from the back of her docile mare. He couldn't see the details of her face but just pale whiteness amongst dark hues - but she looked straight at him, and she followed him, and that was enough.

As the hours went by Sandor had time to grasp the enormity of what had just happened. Lady Lannister, having wedded in front of the Seven and half the population of the North, had absconded on her wedding night. And not only that, but had left with a notorious man with a bad reputation, just the two of them. Jaime's incredulous expression came back to haunt him; if Jaime was that shocked, what would the rest of the people think?

Not that Sandor minded for his own sake – he pissed on what people thought of him. But Sansa was a different matter. She was their lady, and as much as Sandor despised the conventions that people were expected to follow, from a purely pragmatic point of view it might not be wise to fly against the faces of those whose support and good will one needed.

And so it was that with regret when the time to take the turn from the main road came, he slowed Stranger down and waited until Sansa caught up with him.

"Why did we stop?" Sansa was slightly out of breath, not used to riding such long excursions. She pulled in her reins and her horse danced around Stranger until settling by his side, Sansa and Sandor now facing each other.

"We are to take a smaller path from here through the woods to reach the hut I told you about." Sandor flicked his head towards the hardly noticeable fork on the road.

"I see. Well, should we go then? I trust you know the way?"

"I do – but there is something else."

"What is it?" Although everything was cast in the pale moonlight, Sandor could see Sansa's cheeks were flushed and her hair in disarray, long tendrils escaping the confines of her braid under her hood.

"You still have time to change your mind. We can turn back here and return to the keep, and you'll be there in the morning like nothing has happened. But if we enter the woods now there is no turning back – it is bad enough to make a perilous night-time ride once, not to mention twice."

Sansa regarded him and cocked her head.

"Why would I want to do that? And why would you ask? I have made my decision and I have no need to change it."

Sandor hated saying those things, cursed himself a fool for bringing the matter up – but the last time Sansa had not gone with him in her own volition things had turned bad. What if she was already lamenting her decision – and if she was, where would that leave them? And even more, _if_ things were to move on from here and there were no second chances, they both would have to live with their decisions from this moment forward

"Mayhap you didn't think of all that comes with it. People will talk when it becomes known that you left with me. They may question your judgement – and you don't want that. At least we could return to gather some troops with us, even just a few men, and mayhap your maid. So things would look proper."

Stranger was getting restless and started to throw his head, demanding Sandor's attention. By the time he had him under control, Sansa spoke again.

"Do you think I don't know that? Or made up my mind without considering all the aspects? No, I know exactly how it may look or what people may think. But I made my decision regardless, because of two reasons."

Sandor wasn't going to ask what those reasons were, trusting that she would share them in any case. He was right.

"Firstly, when I come back I have to submit myself to an examination by a septa. She will ascertain that I am still a maiden, as only that way can we get the annulment. So there can no doubts about anything…untoward." She looked down at her hands, unable to meet his eyes – then raised her head and captured him with her gaze. "Isn't that so?"

Taken aback Sandor muttered, "Aye. Nothing untoward."

"Secondly – and this is probably even more important; I don't care." The strength of her voice carried clearly in the stillness of the night. "I have stopped caring what people think, stopped worrying if I am the perfect lady, what should I do or what not. I am not a naïve little girl anymore. I have no parents or elders to oversee my actions and my brother is but a child. I am my own advisor and I truly don't care what others think."

Sandor couldn't help admiring her; indeed, this was a woman grown, a woman who was strong. She was not one to rue over spilt milk if it came to that. And if she had made up her mind and had no regrets – even better.

Sansa leant over the pommel of the saddle and after the seriousness of her words, there was smile hidden in her next ones. "Besides, it is too late already. Jaime was going to go the Great Hall and announce to all and sundry that there will be no bedding, no marriage, and apologise for luring them in with false premises. Rickon will stand by his side and together they will let people know that I have left the keep. He will thank them for their presence and say all that sort of things. You know how good Jaime is with people."

 _That soon?_

Sansa and Jaime had certainly made sure to manage this thing as effectively as could be. Sandor was impressed.

"So you see that there is but one way, and that is forward. So, will you lead the way?"

Satisfied – and not just a bit relieved – Sandor guided them deeper into the forest.

 _So be it._

The next part of the journey went by with Sandor concentrating on nothing else but focusing on the route and trying to avoid falling prey to unexpected holes or roots on the ground making their horses stumble. Stranger didn't like to ride at night – which level-headed mount would? – but he bid his master although he showed his displeasure by throwing his head and snorting heavily.

Eventually, they reached the familiar clearing and Sandor reined in his horse. There was something unnerving in being in the same place where he had been ridden down by the furious Kingslayer just the previous night… had it been truly only one day? He had to check himself not to peek nervously towards where they had arrived, half-expecting to see Jaime and Brienne galloping towards him.

Sandor shook his head and dismounted.

The hut was as he remembered. He dropped their bags in the middle of the room, muttered Sansa to wait for him there and left. He needed to carry all their things inside, unsaddle the horses and lead them to drink, hobble them for the night, gather firewood…

"Let me." Sansa had followed her and reached for the bundles. "You can take care of the horses."

Too tired to argue Sandor handed her the beddings. It was not a lady's place to do such things but it was bloody late, the night-time ride has been exhausting, and there was still a lot to do.

By the time he returned inside, to his surprise fireplace already had a small fire burning, filling the room with faint smoke. Sansa had rolled open the blankets and was carrying them towards the single large bed when Sandor entered.

He saw how her gaze flitted between the bed and himself.

"I'll sleep on the floor. Just drop my things over here," he said, gesturing at the floor in front of the fireplace.

Sansa looked at the flames, then back at him.

"Are you sure?"

For a moment Sandor's heart lurched – what, did she expect him to share the bed with her? – before he realised her true meaning.

 _She asks because she knows. The only one who does._

"I am. The chimney is slow to draw so we better start small and feed the fire through the night. I can do it from here." He didn't want to address directly what he knew she was _really_ asking – but it felt oddly heartening to know that she cared enough to ask it.

"If you say so," she replied quietly and brought his things to him.

The room was not exactly freezing but cold enough, so the warmth gradually spreading from the fire felt pleasant. Sandor made two more trips outside to bring in more firewood from the tumbledown pile at the back of the hut, but there was really not much else they could do for now.

Sansa yawned openly and Sandor too felt tiredness spreading over him.

"Go to sleep. It is bloody late and it has been a long day. Tomorrow we think of what to do next."

 _If tomorrow comes._

Sansa didn't protest but after removing her boots – and placing them neatly next to the bed – she crawled under the blankets and sighed deeply.

"Good night, Sandor." Her voice was already sleepy but she was a lady and she minded her manners.

"Good night – little bird." Sandor lay down on top of his saddle blanket and beddings, which would serve him well – he had slept in worse conditions for many times and would not suffer from a few nights on a floor.

Soon the sound of even breathing was Sandor's only companion, Sansa falling asleep almost as soon as her head hit the rolled cloak serving as her pillow.

* * *

Despite tiredness that had seeped deep into his bones, Sandor couldn't sleep. What if he closed his eyes and woke up again at the start of this same day? Meet Sansa, who would be completely unaware of what had transpired between them, and he would have to argue his case with her over again, see her rigid stubbornness and honour standing in the way of what she so truly wanted…

Sandor sighed. He would do that, for as many times as it was needed – but if this was not good enough for the old gods, what in the bloody hells would be?

Sansa's breathing continued steady, undisturbed, dried straw bedding under her rustling as she changed position. Every once in a while Sandor got up and fed twigs and small branches into the fire, and once on such journey he went to her, in silent steps lest he woke her. Glancing around, slightly embarrassed as if breaking an unspoken rule, he watched her, not being able to stop himself. She looked so beautiful, so peaceful, her auburn hair spread on a pillow, blanket bunched tightly up to her chin. In the flickering firelight shadows danced on her face, shadows from her long lashes and wisps of unruly hair.

Sandor stared at her for a long time, wanting to memorise the sight in case if he woke up the next morning in his lonely cot – again.

It must have been way past midnight already. Sandor wondered when – if that was to happen – the time would wind back itself again. He had been either dead drunk or unconscious when it had happened before and had had no notion of the shift.

His lids felt leaden but he forced himself to stay awake. Somehow it felt as if he could just stay awake the gods simply _couldn't_ take him back. Yet it was getting harder and harder especially as the room got warmer.

 _Must stay awake…_

He couldn't sit at the table as that was too close to where Sansa was sleeping. He didn't want to alarm her in case if she woke up and saw him hovering near. The room was so small that the only place Sandor could sit with any comfort was his bedding on the floor, but he sat upright, back against the wall. Every now and then he found himself sliding lower, only to shake himself and sit higher up.

 _Must…stay…awake…_

Sandor's shoulders slumped and his eyes closed. Then a branch cracked in the fire and he jolted awake. A quick check confirmed him that he was still there, in the hut with Sansa. He had no notion of what time it as, but darkness outside the windows was still impenetrable so it must be night still.

After a while the slumber engulfed him once more, and despite his best efforts it started to wrangle him down.

 _Don't sleep. Don't you fucking fall asleep now!_

His eyes closed and did not open again.

* * *

*BANG*

A loud crash woke Sandor; the heavy thump of something wooden hitting the floor.

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!_

 _I failed._

 _Again._

Yet something was different. The clatter of tin mugs was not there, and the single thump was followed by an audible inhale, too loud and too close to be outside his door.

And no wailing.

Sandor willed himself to lie still, not sure if he was ready to face the reality of being back in his room again. Mayhap he just didn't hear well this morning for some reason.

Or mayhap something else.

Then he heard soft shuffling steps. Carefully, very carefully he opened his eyes to a slit – and found himself staring at a crudely built wooden ceiling which most decidedly was _not_ the ceiling of his room.

And when he turned his head to his side, he saw Sansa crouched over a stool she must have toppled over, explaining the crashing sound.

 _Thankthegods thankthegods thankthegods thankthegods thankthegods thankthegods thankthegods._

 _I did it._

 _I fucking did it!_


	15. The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives

**Author's Notes** : …and I am back! Still a bit frazzled and unsettled but gradually getting over the fact that it is back to everyday routine - with all its good AND bad…

And at this juncture this story has changed shape and become something else. The Groundhog Day has been lived and re-lived over and over again and finally Sandor cracked it – woot-woot! End well, all well!

…or is it…? What next? What now that the most extraordinary thing – a thing Sandor would have never in his wildest dreams could have imagined back in Chapter 1 - has happened; where do they go from here?

This is what I am trying to explore a bit in the last few chapters. On one hand, the story is over – the curse/blessing has been broken – but on another, I can't just leave them here, can I? But please note that the end _is_ nigh and for the most part the story IS over…just a few loose ends to tie up.

* * *

Sandor's heart thundered in his chest, its beat only outpaced by his breathing; fast and laboured. He knew he had done it, he had broken the god's cycle.

 _Sansa Stark is not wedded and it is a new day._

Tightness in his chest that had choked him since the sound of the stool toppling over had alerted him started to gradually diminish and Sandor inhaled deeply. Hungry mouthfuls of stale air, the tenseness of his body draining away at every breath.

 _Sansa Stark left on her wedding day to come away with me._

For a moment, wanting to forget the politics of it and the sound reasonings he himself had contrived to explain why it was an astute political move, Sandor revelled for a little bit longer on the fact. On all the things he had learned of Sansa over the last few..days? Cycles? On the new closeness they had built, and which was still with them - because if he was here with Sansa this morning, everything they had said and done the previous day had truly happened.

 _Sansa Stark trusts me._

Slowly, slowly, after his initial jubilation subsided, Sandor got up to his feet, limbs stiff from the night on the floor. Sansa looked guiltily at him and lifted the stool pushing it under the table.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to wake you up."

"No harm done. It was bloody time to wake up anyway." He had a hard time keeping his grinning in check – Sansa would have no notion of why he would be in such a good mood first thing in the morning and would think him a fool. Then his gaze swept across the room, which in the bright morning light looked worse than he had thought, and he didn't have to pretend seriousness any further. A thick layer of dust covering every conceivable surface, cobwebs in all corners and smell of smoke, old and new, meted harsh judgement of his selection.

"Not such a good choice after all, this place. I shouldn't have dragged you into this hole. We better pack our things and seek another dwelling."

He bent to pick up his things. "Mayhap Castle Cerwyn could offer its hospitality. The household is in Winterfell but surely the castellan has been left behind. Or we could seek lodgings in Wintertown."

Sansa followed his lead and looked around, but instead of agreeing with him she turned to him looking puzzled. Her eyebrows were drawn together and her mouth turned into a pout.

"Why should we leave? This is perfect! Just needs a little… spring clean. You'll see."

And with those words the day the kind of Sandor Clegane had never experienced, kicked off.

* * *

 _Finally!_

Sandor let the bucket drop to the ground and sat down with a heavy grunt. It must have been…what, the thirtieth bucket of water he had carried from the stream? Of clean water, that was. He had also carried the equal number of buckets filled with dirty water and upended them at the back of the hut. And he had dragged even more things back and forth; the crudely carved (and heavy) table, two long benches and a stool, all their bags and bundles – first out, and then back in.

Sansa had found a broom and had swept every nook and cranny inside the hut like a madwoman. She had sacrificed one of her scarves for a cleaning rag and after commissioning Sandor to the endless duty of carrying water, had washed all surfaces, wringing the rag free of brownish water time and time again until the water ran clear. And then she had done the same for the furniture, rubbing them until she was satisfied that they were as clean as she could get them.

Sandor hadn't been idle either between his bouts as a water carrier; he had chopped more firewood taking advantage of the fallen tree, and had collected fresh branches of pine and spruce and hacked them into pieces to stuff the old straw mattress with them, releasing the age-old and withered straw into the four winds.

And he had watched Sansa.

He had never seen her like this; her cheeks flaming red, her eyes bright and her smile easy. Gone was the dignified lady of the keep, being replaced by the energetic mistress of her small domain who spared no effort in her quest to make her nest nice and cosy.

Sandor had tried to protest once or twice whether it was worth all the trouble if they were only going to need the place for a few days, but Sansa had looked at him as if he had suggested running naked through the woods or some equally mad scheme, and he had ceased his objections.

Besides, he truly enjoyed seeing her so excited and didn't mind the extra work it caused. Hells, he would have carried hundreds of buckets and dismantled the whole place log by log and put it together again if it pleased her. Yet when she had announced that she was satisfied with the outcome and it was time to stop Sandor had been more than ready.

So there he sat, on the cold ground, the bucket forgotten on his feet. Rumblings of his stomach reminded him that it had been a while since they had eaten a hasty bite from their stores. They could eat more from them, or…

"It is perfectly charming now," Sansa announced and dropped unceremoniously next to him, pulling her skirts under her as she did so. "The scent of pine is wonderful, surely not a flower in the world could smell so sweet!"

"At least the stink of animal droppings is gone, I grant you that," Sandor grunted. "And that of mouldy straw."

"Hush, I checked and saw only a few tiny droppings. The forest hasn't had a chance to move in – bar the spiders." Sansa shivered.

One of the many new things Sandor had learned about her during the day was that she did not like spiders. He had had to come to her aid when one of the cobwebs she had been sweeping had suddenly come alive when its agitated occupant had made its displeasure known. The corner of his mouth tugged at the memory. There he was, a renowned warrior, ready to lay down his life for his lady – and the best he could do was to protect her from an irritated spider.

Sansa noticed it and poked him in the ribs.

"What is it? Don't you like it when it is neat and tidy?"

"Aye, I like it well enough. Just didn't know that you were a washerwoman disguised as a noble lady."

"There are many things you don't know about me, Sandor Clegane. I wasn't always a lady. I lived a bastard's life for a time and even the bastard daughter of the Lord Protector of the Vale had her duties."

Littlefinger. Sandor had heard the bare bones of the tale from Jaime, how he had held Sansa in his clutches as a helpless pawn in his plans. Cold hate he had felt then woke up again and Sandor had to clench his jaws to prevent a loud curse.

"Littlefinger's bastard, eh? The bloody coward, to have the gall…"

"It was actually not always so bad," Sansa interrupted him, perhaps sensing his rising temper. "I had more freedom than in the Red Keep, and I didn't have to live in fear all the time."

That shut Sandor up.

"I had friends too… two girls of my own age, Myranda and Mya, who treated me as their friend, not as a lady. And there was a man, Lothor Brune was his name." Sansa had a faraway look on her face and an emotion Sandor had never experienced before stabbed him in the chest; an instant dislike for a man he had never even heard of.

"What of this Brune?" Sandor stared at his clenched fists, knuckles white against the weathered skin.

Sansa turned her head and looked at him – her eyes focusing on his and seeing him and nobody else.

"He reminded me of you," she said simply.

And so Sandor learned another new emotion; shame – for being so quick to judge a man only because he had been with Sansa Stark when he couldn't. Sansa didn't elaborate further and Sandor didn't ask. A new rumble from his belly reminded him of his earlier train of thought.

"When I was carting water I noticed that the stream looks like it could have some salmon. I might go throw a few lines and see if anything bites."

Sansa's smile returned.

"Yes, let's do that! I would _love_ some fresh fish!"

Her enthusiasm was infectious and soon they found themselves by the stream, where Sandor untangled his fish line and cut a small sapling for a rod. As a bait he used strands of his own hair and after hesitation asked for a lock of Sansa's. After its immediate granting he cut a shining strand with only slightly trembling hands and tied it to the bait; silky auburn threads glimmering in sunlight against the coarser black.

Something in the tangled combination resting on his big palm seemed…almost too intimate, and he glanced warily at Sansa. She, too, was staring at the object and something in her expression arrested Sandor. Her lips were slightly apart, her cheeks flushed, her eyes fixed on the bait. When she sensed Sandor's eyes on her, she pulled away, jerkily.

"I…am sure fish will love it."

"Aye, that is the purpose."

 _An attraction. A lure. That's what it is._

* * *

Sandor had been right; the stream was teeming with fish and it didn't take long before they had caught three big ones. Sansa had reeled in the last one, giggling like a young girl and splashing around in the knee-high water and in the process wetting her skirts thoroughly. It had been Sandor's fault that she had waded in; it had been his task to catch the struggling fish - but he had been distracted by the sight of her and let it slip through his hands.

Sansa appeared so happy, so carefree, so… full of life. The change from the unhappy bride of the wedding feasts and the forlorn maid in her bridal chamber was as extreme as it was unexpected.

They built a fire by the streamside and Sandor gutted the fish in a few sure moves and secured them in sticks staked into the ground to cook in the glow. An old soldier's trick, but Sansa ooh'd and aah'd as it was the cleverest thing she had ever seen.

Sandor didn't mind, basking in her admiration.

They ate with their fingers, juices running down their chins. The taste of their pristine bounty, the scenery and - most of all - the company made it the best meal Sandor had ever had in his whole life.

"I wish I had joined Robb, Jon and Arya on their adventures more often when we were children. Arya always came back telling stories of life in the wild, proud as punch," Sansa sighed, throwing fish frames to the fire. Her wet skirts steamed, emanating moist warmth where they were sitting on a rug thrown on the ground.

"She was a good travel companion, I'll say that much. When she kept her temper in check," Sandor admitted.

"Tell me about her and about your travels together. Not only the facts but _how_ it was, how _she_ was. How _you_ were – at the time." Sansa inched ever so subtly forward and looked at him with big blue eyes.

And so Sandor did.

He held nothing back; not how he had wrapped the little wolf in a blanket roll to keep her from running, how he had kept a stern eye on her and made her look after their horses, nor how she had hated him and not shied away from ways to make it clear. Sansa listened and asked a question here and there, but mostly let him share at his own pace. She flinched when Sandor told about Arya refusing to give him the gift of mercy.

"And you were wounded because there were three against one? No wonder, those are poor odds for anyone."

"Bah, they were just gnats. And your sister took care one of them on her own. No, it was not them, it was my own fault. I drank too much too fast on an empty stomach and lost my advantage."

"Why did you do that in the company you must have known to be wary of?"

It was not the time for anything but honesty.

"They told me about you. That you had married the Imp and killed the king and flown away."

"Oh." Sansa swallowed audibly and was quiet for a moment. Then she drew her knees closer to her chest and threw a sideways look at Sandor, her brow knitted. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

"Why? I shouldn't have been surprised. I knew when I left that nothing good was to come to you – and still I left."

"You did as you had to do, no fault of yours."

"It _was_ my fault. I just stood there and let them beat you. I told as much to our sister when she left me for the wolves."

"I am sorry about what Arya did. She shouldn't have."

"Pfft, she did me a favour. Cleaned the wound as best as she could and didn't kill me, although I wasn't happy about it at the time. Wanted to break her scrawny neck, even long after I was taken in by the Brothers."

"Tell me about the Quiet Isle."

They had lowered themselves on their backs and watched the sky; puffy white clouds against the blue. Sandor found it easier to tell her things when he didn't have to look at her, and she seemed to understand that. So focused was he in trying to gather his thoughts about where to start that at first he didn't notice Sansa's hand sneaking to touch his before she had embraced it fully; her long fingers wrapped around his. Then, he almost jumped.

 _What…?_

Her fingers were cold but warmed quickly at the touch of their skins. Slowly, unsurely, he turned his own hand to clasp hers in his palm, squeezing gently. Neither of them interrupted their gazing of the clouds and somehow this made it easier for Sandor.

And so he told her about the Elder Brother and those fever-fuelled first few weeks.

He told her about his many arguments with the man who saved him in more ways than one.

He told her about his penitence of digging graves and laying dead to the cold earth.

He told her things he had never told anyone, not even to the Elder Brother.

And all this time they laid in the grass, their hands touching, she rubbing her thumb against the ridges of his knuckles.


	16. The Nights Are The Hardest

**Author's Notes:** Their idyllic existence continues… feel free to gag should you feel so!

Thank you to all who have commented and said lovely things about this story - thank you SO much!

* * *

Eventually the fire died down and the cool wind started to blow from the north. Sandor felt Sansa shiver and tug her scarf around her tighter.

"Time to go in," he announced, getting up and putting down the embers still glowing in the ashes. "You'll catch a cold and where will I be then? Letting the lady of the keep perish under my watch. Never again."

"I didn't exactly perish before, either. And I know you'll look after me. You promised me so."

Was that teasing in her tone? If it was, good on her. Sandor was in awe of this new Sansa, the woman he had not seen before.

After returning to the hut Sandor went out once more to check the snares he had set up first thing in the morning. Sansa stayed inside and when Sandor came back with a lifeless hare dangling from his belt he saw the glow of the hearth through the window and Sansa at the table, head bowed, long hair flowing down over her face. And just as he was thinking how odd it was to come back from the cold to _that_ , she looked up, saw him through the milky glass and smiled.

Almost physical pain pierced Sandor then; pain mixed with pleasure. As for how long would he have her so close, so trusting, so free of all the trappings of nobility? Tomorrow would come and with it the reality, and soon they both would return to it.

 _And all this…gone._

Sandor was not a fool. She had said that she had kept him in her heart and had not turned away from him in disgust when he had told her that he cared for her – had even told him she had sought his company before. Even if it meant something, she was still a lady and he a turn cloak man-at-arms. And that could not be.

Sighing he hung the hare onto a hook and started gutting it.

* * *

A potful of meat stew under their belt they sat on the floor, their backs propped against the wall, their legs stretching towards the fireplace.

The ease of their conversation was still there, peppered with comments about Sansa's cooking, the merits of hare compared to rabbit, the rueful lack of wine to drink (Sandor's contribution) and observances of the tidiness of their living quarters (Sansa's sentiments).

After these light-hearted matters had reached their conclusion the silence ensued once again. Staring at the shapes the flames took as they danced Sandor found a question burning in his mind; mayhap idle curiosity, mayhap a desire to see a fair trade of confidences. He coughed.

"Tell me about the Imp. Tell me about the Vale."

Sansa stiffened.

"If it please you," he added as an afterthought. She owed him no explanations, after all.

Sansa relaxed again. "Yes, it pleases me. I haven't told many people – and all of it I have shared with no-one."

And so she told him about the Imp and their false marriage and the despair of being thus trapped, and how she took the opportunity to run when it presented itself.

She told him about hiding under a false identity in the Eyrie, living a bastard's life in fear of being caught by the Lannisters.

She told him about Littlefinger's embraces and kisses under the pretence of fatherly affection.

She told him more things she had ever told anyone, and in that, Sandor believed her.

And as Sansa spoke those things, she leaned closer to him and soon her head rested against his shoulder. Sandor didn't know what to do. Should he move? Should he wrap his arm around her? In the end he did neither but let her be. A feel of another human so close to him was strange, and he couldn't help being tense and apprehensive until Sansa's apparent ease eventually assured him that it was fine - it was normal.

It was also disturbingly natural that as she talked and rested her hand on his thigh, it made him much too aware of her long fingers playing with a loose thread of his homespun breeches, leading to the inevitable consequences. His cock hardened and the recollection of the other day when he had imagined her hand on it made it harder still… _Gods!_

Sandor tried to shift imperceptibly but it only worsened the situation, his cock freeing itself from the folds of his breeches, and now visibly pressing against the fabric forming a bulge.

 _Fuck!_

He wasn't sure if Sansa saw it, though – she did not pull away or interrupt her story, nor cease the movement of her fingers. They were both staring at the fire, the dance of flames every bit as hypnotic as the dance of clouds, and as well serving the purpose of liberating Sansa to tell her story.

Mayhap she had not noticed?

In any case, Sandor's condition only worsened and the more he tried not think about it, the more aware he became of her body pressing against his, the scent of her hair, the brush of her hand against his thigh with only a worn fabric between her skin and his.

It was agony.

It was bliss.

Eventually, Sandor couldn't take it any longer. Muttering about needing to take a piss he untangled himself from her and quickly turning away almost ran out of the hut. He needed to stand a good while in the cold night, breeches open and forehead resting against the sturdy wall until his arousal left him and he could piss. Thanks the gods he was sleeping on the floor, as he wasn't sure how he would cope staying much longer so close to her.

An owl hooted in the forest, another replied to it – the night was full of movement and noises. Despite that it was the tranquillity that arrested Sandor on his spot; the sensation that he was all alone in the whole world. No other people, no high lords nor low peasants, no wildlings nor Southerners. Only he and the girl in the hut, two souls n the wilderness.

It was the most unusual thing.

Sandor took a deep breath of crisp air and let it suffuse through him as he had done the other morning - then another, until he felt sufficiently strengthened to go back in. As a precautionary action, he pushed his cock against his thigh and as a final measure untucked his tunic from his breeches, letting it fall down to cover any possible mishaps. The last thing he wanted was for Sansa to be scared of him or think him breaking her trust.

As if he had any control over his cock. But mayhap Sansa wouldn't know that, being a maid and all.

* * *

Yet it looked like he was not going to get off the hook so easily, Sandor discovered when he stepped in. Sansa was leaning over the pallet, straightening the last of his bedding she had retrieved from the shelf he had shoved them in the morning.

Next to hers.

"I thought it not fair for you to sleep on the floor again," she said without turning to face him. "There is plenty of room here, I think this has been designed to fit in whole families." Her voice was muffled and when Sandor stepped closer he could see redness on her neck, the only slice of her skin visible to him.

"Might not be such a good plan. I sleep just fine on the floor."

"No, I insist. I couldn't sleep knowing that you are lying on the floor like…like a dog." Sansa turned and despite avoiding eye contact and fidgeting on her spot, her tone was determined. "It was bad enough last night, but we had just arrived and were both so very tired, so I let it pass. But now we have made this place our home and everything is in order. And this bed is big – it is enormous, look at it!"

That much was true – it _was_ huge. Being a temporary accommodation it was built as wide as possible with an intent to fit in as many people as needed. There was room for both of them without forcing them too close. And yet…

 _… how could he say no?_

Surrendering his soul to the gods – or to the devils, whichever came to claim him first – Sandor gave up.

"I'll put my sword between us," he said as an attempt to show her that he had no designs for her virtue. Where he had learned of such notion he couldn't say – probably heard a minstrel singing about it, or in one of the knightly stories he had read long, long time ago, in another lifetime.

If Sansa knew the origin of the gesture she didn't let it show – which was just as well. To be accused of knightly behaviour would have been about the last straw right that moment to break Sandor's back. Instead, she looked at the proffered sword, out of its scabbard, then at him, then at the sword again.

"You'd bring live steel next to me?"

The two-handed weapon glinted in a firelight, a sobering and deadly sight.

"I can put it in the scabbard."

A slight hesitation, then Sansa spoke again.

"I trust you. You know as well as I that I need to annul this marriage, and…." No need to continue, they both knew that her maidenhood had to stay intact. That Sansa was thinking about it made Sandor's pulse run faster, though.

"Are you sure you are correct in trusting me, girl?"

"I am. You will not hurt me. Is it not so?"

What could Sandor say in the face of such faith? He only wished he shared the same conviction.

After smothering the fire and retiring for the night – chastely, fully clothed and both staying on their own side of the pallet – Sandor settled on his right side, tucked his arm under his head and watched Sansa. Tossing and turning in an attempt to find a good position she seemed to sense his eyes on her and stopped. Not shying away from his stare she turned onto her left and resumed a similar pose.

Her eyes were bottomless pits and he sunk deep – and didn't care if he never surfaced again. The Hound would have laughed, gnarled his contempt at a man who settled for lying next to a woman without the intention of bedding her.

 _The Hound is dead._

Neither of them blinked but unlike staring contests Sandor was used to having with men who wanted to challenge him, this was no competition. It started to dawn on Sandor that in this, there might be only winners.

Whatever "this" was.

"Little Bird –"

"Sandor –'

They spoke at the same time, then stopped. Then Sansa's hand snaked from under the blanket searching his. At least that's what Sandor though, and after reaching for it with his own, his assumption was confirmed when she squeezed it.

The Hound would have snorted at the notion of holding hands with a woman, branded the hapless fellow as a pitiful eunuch and a loser.

 _The Hound is dead._

Sandor Clegane lived and lay in bed next to Sansa Stark holding her hand in his own.

* * *

Sandor woke up with a painful erection. He had dreamt of fucking, had felt blood surge through his veins and sweat breaking in his whole body as he had plunged in, harder, deeper. The woman he had fucked had been faceless, but she had been soft, she had been wet and she had been willing. Grunting, his hand reached for his cock as he still dimly hovered between sleep and awareness. Yet he couldn't reach it, something obstructing his way. Fabric, a coarse weave covering warm flesh under his touch – a human limb for sure but not his own.

 _The fuck?_

Then it came back to him. The hut, the frantic scrubbing, the fishing, the white clouds in the blue sky when he had shared his story with the only person who had ever cared enough to ask. And the dance of flames when he had heard her confessions in turn.

 _Sansa._

Sandor pulled his hand away faster than if he had touched hot coals. Sometime during the night they had inched closer to each other and now Sansa lay right next to him, her hip touching his, her head turned towards him.

It took him a second of frantic thinking to make sure that his dream was only that, a dream, and that nothing untoward had happened. Sandor skimmed his hand across his body and checked his clothing – yes, still fully clad, breeches tied up. A quick glance at Sansa confirmed that she too was wearing her dress.

 _As if…_

Yet no wonder that his dream had been so vivid, provoked by her proximity. Fragments of it came to back to him; the tousled hair - shiny auburn –and sounds and smells he could imagine all too well, having breathed in her scent the whole night, and heard her little sighs when she had changed her position.

A stream of sunlight peeked through the window and reached Sansa's hand that was resting on top of the blanket. It was fine-boned and pale, although slightly scuffed after the labours of cleaning. Staring at it once again the thought of it touching him where he needed to be touched became too much. Sandor was still hard as iron and the prospect of lying there in agony was not something he was ready to contemplate much longer.

Edging his way out from under the bedding he escaped outdoors and to the back of the house, and leaning his back against the crude wall he released himself eyes closed, the memory of Sansa etched inside his eyelids.

Fast, sweet relief – and he was ready to face her again.

When he returned inside Sansa was already waking up. Even from his position near the door to see her stretching and yawning felt much too intimate and yet so natural.

"Morning to you, little bird," he greeted her.

"Morning to you too, Sandor. Where have you been?" She smiled but didn't seem to be in a hurry to get up.

"Just outside. Didn't mean to wake you up."

"Oh, I don't mind. The sun is up and probably so should we."

They hadn't discussed their plans for the day but Sandor had concluded that by now they should return to the keep. One night might have sufficed, and two was courting trouble. Not because of her virtue, as that would be proven well enough by the necessary examination, but the tongues would be wagging nonetheless. No need to make it any harder for her than necessary.

Sandor reached for his saddlebags with an intention to start to gather their things from where they were scattered all over the hut.

"What shall we do today? Do you think we could catch some of the crayfish you talked about yesterday? The ones you think might live in the stream?" Sansa had sat up, folded her arms around her raised knees and stared at him expectedly.

"Today? Isn't it time to return to Winterfell?"

Her face fell. "Now? Why? I mean, what is the hurry?"

"You have a marriage to annul, or have you forgotten? Besides, people will talk if you stay away too long – especially with me." None but Sansa's maid and Jaime knew with whom she had left, but Sandor's absence was bound to be noticed. And people could put one and one together.

Sansa hadn't moved but sat there, wearing an expression that only could be described as a pout. Then she sighed.

"I don't care. All that can wait for another time. I want to stay here for one day more, go crayfishing with you, cook our food over an open fire, watch the sun go down sitting by the stream. Is that too much to ask? So, we'll stay." Then she threw a look at him.

"Unless - do you want to leave? As if you do, I understand…"

"Hells no!"

Sandor hadn't meant to say it so forcefully, but just the thought that she would believe him rather returning to the keep and to the waiting backlash than stay in this hidden place with her… He tried to make clumsy amends.

"We shall do as you bid. Staying here is fine." He dropped his things on the floor.

 _One more day._

Then another thought hit him.

 _And night._

How would he manage another night sleeping next to her - and the sweet torture it brought? Yet seeing Sansa's face brighten pushed all such thoughts out of Sandor' head and silently he resided to his fate.

 _One more night it is._


	17. A Step Too Far?

**Author's Notes:** It was only a matter of time before something' gotta give.

* * *

The day was even better than the previous, and it flew by so quickly that hardly had they set out in the morning than it was the evening already.

They caught a bucketful of crayfish and boiled them in a rusty cauldron found in the hut and ate them outside by the stream. Sandor showed Sansa how to peel their tails and get into the juicy white flesh beneath and how to suck their legs and heads for flavour, and she was a quick study, her appetite surprising him. He was used to seeing her only nibbling at her food in the Great Hall, so to see her ravenously engulfing her meal and sucking and chewing it in a most unladylike way made his day.

Afterwards, they walked in the woods, talking about nothing and everything, weaving their way in the green sanctuary surrounding them on every side. Later Sandor insisted taking Stranger for a ride and Sansa insisted following him, and so they ventured further, all the way to the path leading to Winterfell – and as if by mutual agreement, without a word, they turned around and raced back to the hut as fast as their mounts managed.

Sansa had laughed then, the sound of it echoing like a bell in the wind, and even Sandor couldn't prevent a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He had never seen Sansa laugh so much, not even when she had been a wide-eyed girl excited about the kingly court all those years ago in the Kingsroad.

It was hard not to let that affect his own demeanour, as unused as he was to such gaiety.

As Sansa had wanted, they watched the sunset by the bank of the stream; the great big orb disappearing behind the treetops shifting the colours around them from amber hues to light and dark blues. Their breath misted in the cool air and the silence was deafening and soothing.

It was a good day.

* * *

After the darkness swallowed their little hut they sat in front of the fire once again, sharing stories. This time, they were not tales of great consequence – they had already shared confidences about the things that mattered – but small stories, exchanges of things from the past, and of things that were new. Opinions, observations, personal views, memories and questions – big and small. Their words flowed freely, unbidden, sometimes stumbling into each other, sometimes halting, sometimes their flow stopping altogether.

Sandor had never talked so much in the course of a few days.

He was unaccustomed to it but contrary to what he might have once thought, it wasn't wearisome. In all honesty it was Sansa who took care of most of the talk, but Sandor did hold his own. And even silences punctuating their conversation seemed to carry a meaning of their own.

Trust, comfort.

There was no further talk about the arrangements for the night when the time to retire arrived. Both of them settled on the pallet in a mutual silent understanding, Sandor removing his boots and Sansa untying the ribbon in her hair and loosening her braid. The fire had died down to coals after being burned high until the hut was warm and cosy, their glow and that of the full moon being the only light after Sandor blew out the last candle.

 _Fucking domestic._

Sandor had a plan, this time, to disappear behind the hut as soon as Sansa fell asleep to take care of his urges. He knew he would find no true pleasure in it but saw it a practical solution to avoid any more discomfort than he was bound to experience. Sleeping next to her, enfolded in her scent – no red-blooded man could endure that with no effect.

Confident about his strategy he turned on his side with a degree of confidence – a respectable distance apart – and enjoyed the sight of her. Tousled hair, small white teeth peeking under those damnable red lips.

 _A man could get used to waking up to that._

He allowed himself the luxury of that thought for exactly two seconds before pushing it away. And any others of its ilk.

"Sandor, what will happen next?" Sansa's voice was soft.

"What do you mean? We leave tomorrow, you set your annulment in motion and Jaime packs his bags for Casterly Rock. I doubt he will stay in the North. After that – whatever you want. You are the Lady of Winterfell and the guardian for the young Lord Stark. Your decision."

"I didn't mean that and you know it. What will happen with this? You, me – us?"

Sandor swallowed. To have his own words presented back at him should have felt more vexing – but it didn't.

 _Us._

"That too. Whatever you want."

A long silence, during which Sandor's heart started to increase its pace akin to what he had so far experienced only at the battlefield, just before the command to charge was given. Sansa looked thoughtful, as much as he could make of her features in the silvery glow and the orange hues.

"Did you mean what you said in the Godswood?"

"I said what?"

Hells, he had said so many things on so many occasions - he didn't even remember for sure what and when in that crazy circle of days repeating themselves.

"When you said you don't care about my title, house or lands." Her voice dropped towards the end of the sentence so he could hardly hear the last words. But he heard them well enough – and knew what she was really asking.

Some part of Sandor's mind observed the situation in an oddly detached way. To lie in bed with a woman and talk about _feelings_ – it was not him.

The Hound wouldn't have done those things.

He wasn't sure if even Sandor Clegane was ready for them.

Some tiny part of him was irritated, even angry, and his whole body stiffened. How was a man supposed to answer such a question? To tell her that he did care about her and her alone? To swoon about emotions and love and all such bull?

He braced himself for the awkwardness that was sure to follow. He was not going to be able to give her an answer she would be satisfied with, and she would turn away and the magic of the last two days would be swept away.

Then he felt her hand touching his face. Tentatively, softly, fingers finding their way across his forehead, brushing his temple and descending lower, to his scars. Sandor turned even more rigid. This was not holding hands or casually resting one's palm against his leg. This was a deliberate attempt to breach into his most public, but also his most private side - to break through what was meant to be left alone. His face was what had made him, it was his curse and his identity, and it was his and his alone.

There had been one other who had tried to reach to him and he had reacted in the same way. ' _Like a dog that has been kicked too many times, that's what you are,'_ the Elder Brother's words came to him, ' _A dog that is growling and bites the hand that tries to pet it.'_ He had refuted him of course, cursed him and told angrily the old bastard to keep his big nose out of his affairs. Halfway through his tirade, lacking its usual flare as he had still been weak after the fever that had consumed him, his tormentor had looked down on him with a gentle smile on his face and Sandor had stopped in mid-sentence.

 _Hmph._

That had been one of the first revelations about himself he had realised in that godforsaken island with that godforsaken man. One of many.

Sandor didn't feel Sansa's touch through the thickened scar tissue, but he could feel the pressure and how every now and then she brushed the healthy skin surrounding the mangled mass. She was unhurried and took her time, sweeping strands of his hair behind the remains of his ear.

"You don't have to answer. I will try to find the answer from your actions. It was unfair of me to put you on the spot."

And suddenly it was not difficult at all.

"I did." His voice was hoarse and he knew he wouldn't be able to elaborate any further - but mayhap that was enough?

Sansa's fingers continued their exploration and swept past his jaw, lightly dancing across the part where a bone showed through.

"It was never about your scars, you know. Or if it was, only in the beginning. I was young and liked pretty things, what can I say? I was shallow. But I soon learned better."

Sandor lay still but his muscles started to relax. The embarrassment he had half-expected to arise from his admission didn't materialise, and Sansa seemed satisfied enough not to ask for more.

"It was your anger. Your hate. That's why you scared me."

Sandor had no response to that so he said nothing.

The next thing he knew was Sansa's hand dropping on the hollow of his throat, resting there for a moment before continuing along his collarbone. He couldn't help it; he flinched.

"I am sorry." Sansa withdrew her hand. "You don't like to be touched?"

Sandor had to think for a moment to realise that he had never _been_ touched that way – softly, gently. At least not as long as he could remember. Women he had consorted with had been matter-of-fact and professional, not wasting their efforts on body parts which did not bring out a swift completion of the transaction.

"Wouldn't know."

"What do you….oh!"

The hand returned, timid but persistent.

"Do you mind?"

Sandor closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and forced himself to relax. The rhythm of his breathing slowed and he absorbed the strange sensation of human touch against his body.

Sansa's fingers traced tentatively along his shoulder, dropping to his collarbone, then following the lines of his collar until they reached the middle of his chest. Their touch was uncertain, feather-light, but the mere fact that they were there didn't leave it in doubt.

She was doing it because she wanted to.

"No, little bird, I don't think I mind."

The sound of rustling as she changed her position, it releasing a scent of forest from the still fresh pine needles. She didn't move her hand though.

"Sandor, my intention is not to provoke you – or tease you in any way. I know you are a man who is used to more when spending a night with a woman, and…"

"Do you, now?" Sandor knew he had to stop thinking of Sansa as the innocent girl she had once been. She had seen things, heard things – if what she had told about her friend Myranda was all true, she knew a _lot_. And yet it would have been easier not to think of her in that light.

Unfazed, Sansa continued, her hand still resting on top of him. "I feel I have gotten to know you so much over these last few days; your thoughts, your mind, the real you inside the façade you always held up. I knew you had it because it was the same for me."

"And?"

"And I am curious. I want to learn more."

"Why?"

"Do you need to ask?" Sansa rose on her elbows and looked down upon him. In the feeble light Sandor could hardly make out her features bar her eyes, dark against the paleness of her skin.

Sandor knew what he was going to say could be dangerous, but it didn't stop him. He was sure he could control himself as he had always done, his iron will stronger than any weakness of the flesh.

"Go ahead then."

* * *

Sansa's touches were uncertain and inexperienced with no direction or purpose. Sandor was more used to assured hands aiming straight to his cock; hands that knew how to coax a man to spurt his seed as quickly as possible.

 _Stop that thought._

No, this was not it – nowhere near.

Sandor forced himself to lie absolutely still. Not only did he find the experience most extraordinary and wholly novel, but he was also curious to see what the prim and proper Lady Sansa would get up to. That she even wanted to do this – of her own accord – was astounding by itself.

Sweeping strokes across his chest, dropping down to his sides and waist, then again to his throat, skimming, pressing, tugging at the cords of his clothing.

Hazarding to guess what was on her mind Sandor raised his hand - slowly, carefully - and drew the cords free, yanking the collar of his tunic open.

First nothing.

Then those soft fingers pushed their way inside his shirt and pressed softly against his bare skin.

 _Hells!_

If that was what she wanted, he could accommodate her. Sandor raised his upper body, pulled his tunic above his head and threw it in the corner.

"Play with me as you wish," he muttered to Sansa who had withdrawn, startled by his action. "I swear I will just lie here. Go on, explore."

"Are you sure? I don't want to… cause any discomfort."

 _So she had noticed._

"Never mind that. I can't promise that every part of me stays still – but what I have control over, shall."

"Oh!"

Sandor was glad about the shadows in the room that allowed him to hide his smile. So the curious little bird might be about to get more than what she had bargained? His strategy having been blown into smithereens his arousal had been fast. Even mixed with an unfamiliar feeling of relaxation and comfort his blood had awakened and he was hard. Again.

 _Well, nothing I can do about it now._

For a moment he considered whether he should get up under some excuse and take care of his needs as he had planned. It might make it easier for him and less embarrassing for Sansa. Yet he felt so very warm and so very comfortable and he hated to break the spell. He would endure it. He always did.

The sensations were even more intense without a cloth separating them. How could another human's touch be so…

Sandor had no words. All he knew was that his whole being was concentrated on those few squares of his skin where Sansa's hand rested, smoothed, glided, pinched or twirled in the hair of his upper body.

Every now and then Sandor had to take a deep breath, having forgotten to breathe normally. Once he half-opened his eyes to observe Sansa who was concentrating on her task with great intensity. She didn't notice his glance, head bowed and eyes following the trail of her hand on Sandor's stomach. He squinted to follow her gaze and seeing her long white fingers pressing down so close to the waistband of his breeches…

 _Bloody hells!_

Another forced exhale, and words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"If you want to lay your hands on me, why not where it does most good?"

He regretted them immediately. He was supposed to be passive, let the girl explore at her own pace. Not make demands. Nor suggestions.

"Wh…what do you mean? Where?"

"Forget it. Nowhere." Sandor forced himself to relax again – without noticing he had started to tense and was like a tightly coiled spring.

After a while, the hand started to move again. Down to his waistband, fumbling with it, then further down. On top of the cloth, though.

The sudden feel of pressure on his cock was excruciating. Blissful. Amazing.

"Here?" A tremulous whisper.

"Don't… don't do it, little bird. I…" What Sandor was about to say was forgotten when he felt the squeeze. Just the palm of her hand and two fingers.

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuck!_

Sandor's whole body shuddered. It was madness. He should stop her now, should tell her to move her hand away. Remove it by force if necessary. Yes, he had to put a stop to it.

Sandor willed his arm to move, his fingers to curl around her wrist, his hand to pull her away. He willed – and nothing happened. He couldn't move, so absorbed he was on that overwhelming pleasure of his flesh. Heat pooled in his belly.

Sansa kept on pressing, her fingers tentatively sliding up and down, and it was _fucking wonderful._ And yet the pressure of her inexpert touch – as sweet as it was - was excruciatingly soft and her grip agonisingly delicate.

 _Not enough._

Forgetting his thoughts from a mere moment ago Sandor murmured, "Bloody hells, girl."

"Do you like it?" Breathless voice, as if she had run a vast distance.

 _"Mmmmmm,"_ was all he could conjure through a stricken throat.

'I don't really know what to do. Myranda told me men like it when women…touch them there."

 _More, need more._

Sandor laid his own hand on top of hers and wrapped her fingers around his member as much as he could. They couldn't encircle it fully, not without him lowering his breeches, and that was one step too far. Mayhap if he could just…

Soon Sandor was too far gone for details to really matter and ended up stroking himself with his hand, _her_ hand, rubbing his shaft in fast motion, up and down, faster, harder. And when he reached that moment – that unstoppable moment when nothing mattered but letting go - he stilled his motions – _her_ motions - letting out an animalistic growl.

 _FUCK!_

* * *

And then it was over.

And when Sandor slowly returned to his senses the realisation of what exactly had just happened hit him with a force.

 _I spilled my seed on Sansa Stark's hand._

 _I used her like one would a whore for a cheap encounter in the back alley._

 _I used her like a brute uses a serving wench coming his way when his blood is up but he is too lazy to search for a proper lay._

Sandor squeezed his eyes shut hoping he would never have to open them again to face Sansa.


	18. Whys and Wherefores

**Author's Notes:** Sorry about the delays between posting – it is the dreaded "the end is in sight but how do I make it there in a coherent manner" slump time of the fic… Not to mention busy times at work and hubby having returned from his overseas stint… Thanks for still hanging on!

* * *

Eventually Sandor reached for a rag – neatly rinsed, dried and folded on the shelf – and tucked it down his breeches.

"Need to clean up," he growled and got up, not looking at Sansa. Shoulders hunched he made his way to the basin filled with water, splashed some of it on his groin and dried himself carefully. He made sure to do it with his back towards the pallet, dreading what he would see if he turned around: shock and disgust on Sansa's face. She might have had an inkling of such matters, but to witness a grown-ass man fucking his hand _– her hand –_ was bound to be too much.

 _'…I'll put my sword between us…'_

 _'…I swear I will just lie here…'_

 _'…what I have control over, shall stay still...'_

Empty promises.

He had had fuck-all control over himself and the girl had suffered for that.

To delay the inevitable – as it was not as if he could leave in the middle of the fucking night into the middle of the fucking forest and leave the girl fucking alone – Sandor added some more wood to the fire. Only too late he realised that it would make the room even brighter when all he wanted was to slink into the darkness.

 _No two ways about it. Face what you have done, dog._

Sandor made his way back and sat gingerly at the edge of the bed for a moment before picking up his discarded tunic, donning it on and laying down. Minimum movements, no fuss, no looking around. Settling into as comfortable position as he could he rested his arm against his forehead, staring at the ceiling. The fire had rekindled and he could see the roof clearly. Not really wanting to, his gaze darted to his side, at Sansa.

She was flushed with her cheeks flaming red and her eyes were unnaturally bright. Her lips were apart and as Sandor watched, she licked her lips.

Undoubtedly expecting him to say something.

"I shouldn't have done it," he finally broke the silence. "I bloody _told_ you we should have put the sword in bed."

Sansa had pulled the blanket all the way to her chin and peered from under it, uncertainty spreading on her face.

"You… you didn't like it?"

"What I like or not matters fuck all – I shouldn't have done it to _you._ "

A moment of contemplation.

"Why? You didn't do _anything_ to me. I hope I did something for you…I thought you enjoyed it…but you seemed like you were in pain. Did I do it wrong?" Sansa stared at him breathlessly, waiting for…what? His appraisal?

Sandor heaved a heavy sigh. What was wrong with the girl? He turned to her fully with a selection of choice words in mind – and was faced with a sight of such eagerness, sincerity, and excitement that all he planned to say withered on his lips. Still, he had to try.

"What I mean is that I shouldn't have forced your hand. You shouldn't have witnessed that, it was not a sight for a maiden. All men are animals and I am no different."

"But did you like it?"

Gods, she could be stubborn when she wanted to!

"Bloody hells, what do you take me for? Of course I liked it! It was…" Sandor found himself dumbstruck. It had been more than just a bodily sensation; much, much more. Apart from the guilt of what he had put her through, it had been the single most intense and gratifying release he had ever experienced.

Because of her.

"…it was special," he finished lamely.

A bright smile spread on Sansa's face.

"So you _did_ like it! I am glad you did," she exclaimed, much to Sandor's bewilderment.

 _Why would she care?_

"Why? What was in it for you?"

Sansa didn't seem rebuked by his abrupt question, her smile only widening.

"I am not sure if I can explain it, really. All I know that when you seemed you were enjoying it – at times – it made me happy. I wanted to bring you pleasure. I wanted you to feel good." Her eyes shimmered in the firelight. "Is that odd?"

The whole notion that someone wanted him to feel _good_ was so absurd that Sandor ignored her question altogether. Wouldn't have had an answer anyway – what did he know about those things?

He had a question of his own, one that had been brewing inside him ever since she had told her she was going to run away with him. No, even earlier, from when he had first heard that she had once sought his company. When he had seen with his very own eyes her holding his cloak as it was the most precious thing in the world.

Sandor hadn't wanted to voice it before - why, he wasn't sure. Mayhap he had been afraid that it would make her think too much. To consider, to weigh things anew and to decide that she had been fooled by a silly dream or a vestige of some twisted notion of chivalry, protection or some such.

Fixing his eyes on her Sandor asked – as why fucking not, after what had just transpired?

"Why?"

Sansa tilted her head. "I told you, I wanted to make you feel good."

"Not that. Why me? Why all this?"

Still, she didn't appear to comprehend what he really meant, looking at him like he was a simpleton. He tried again.

"Why me? You can have anyone you want. There is not a man in the whole fucking Westeros who wouldn't jump at the flick of your fingers. Men worthier than me. So why are you wasting your favours to an old dog like me?"

That got her attention, finally. She opened her mouth to reply but then stopped, frowning.

 _…and this is where she realises that there is no good reason. Well played, dog._

Already regretting his question Sandor turned back to examine the roof. Its structure was simple; solid beams made of whole tree trunks and crudely hewn rafters, and in a detached way he admired the handiwork of the builders, whoever they had been. Detached, because even though he wasn't sure whether he wanted to hear her answer, his ears were attuned to her in case if she did.

"Sandor, look at me."

Reluctantly, he did. No smiles or beaming this time – Sansa was dead serious.

"For that I have no answer that would make sense to anyone but me." She wrinkled her nose. "Or if I am totally honest, I am not really sure if it makes sense to me either".

"Forget I asked," Sandor muttered.

What had he been thinking?

"No, I won't. I only mean that I can't give you an answer that would make rational sense. At least to anyone I know. You are not of noble birth, your house has never been an ally to my house, and you personally served great enemies of my family for a long time – people who killed my mother, father, and brother. You have no wealth, power nor influence of our own. You are not traditionally handsome or have a way with the words – as a matter of fact, your manners overall are not likely to endear you to ladies."

"Tell me something I don't know," Sandor grunted.

"I only mention those things as they are reasons that might make sense to others. I, too, thought for a long time that for me to fall for someone they would have to be at least some of those things." Sansa shifted closer, leaning on her elbows against Sandor's chest and resting her chin on her hands. Her apparent ease to invade his personal space was a far cry from the girl who had not even dared to look at him – long, long time ago.

"I dreamt of a handsome prince or a knight, who would woo me with his words and gifts, would pay attention to my every need and adore me as his lady love."

"No such men exist and if you think different you are a fool."

"Of course I don't! But the point is, none of those things truly matter. Not looks, not words, not manners. And wealth and status don't make anyone _feel_ anything."

"You are chirping nonsense, little bird."

"'Why', you ask. But I don't _know_ why. Maybe because you tried to help me, already back in Kings Landing. You never lied to me or made me feel stupid – at least not without a reason. You told me things I needed to know with no benefit to yourself. You were different."

Sandor had stopped breathing. The air was not important, her words were.

"You had suffered, you knew what it was to lose everything, as did I. But you hadn't completely given up; your soul was searching for something, just like mine was. Maybe that was what united us."

 _What a load of bull,_ the Hound would have snorted.

Sandor Clegane listened.

Sansa sighed. "As I said, I have no real answer to your question. But does it matter? Why to bother with whys and wherefores as long as we know what _is?"_

Sandor couldn't argue with that so he only nodded, dazed by her candor. And by what lied behind her words.

 _What is._

"Besides, you are very big and very strong. Your shoulders and arms and everything about you. Men like that attract women for other reasons. And yet you would never hurt me - you make me feel safe." Sansa smiled and looked demurely up at him from under her lashes.

"Everything?" Sandor raised his eyebrow. "You have seen enough to make comparisons?"

"Yes," Sansa nodded. "I have never seen a man as big as you, expect the Mountain, and…" Then she caught his meaning and blushed. "I mean… as tall and wide…"

Sandor was amused. At least he could still make her blush, although in all other respects _she_ was the one making him quiver.

"I am no maiden's dream, that much is certain."

"Any man can be the Knight of the Flowers for some woman. And you are mine."

After delivering that last blow Sansa withdrew to her side, settling on her back and pulling up her blanket. Sandor digested Sansa's words and tried to make some sense of them, but before he had even reached 'you were different', Sansa spoke again.

"You know, I could ask the same. Why me? You bear no love for spoiled little noble girls – isn't that why you first called me a little bird, for those birds from the Summer Isles who just repeat all the stupid words they are taught to recite? Why this? Why did you talk me into leaving my wedded husband on our wedding night? I know the reasons why other men might do that, but you are not like other men. "

Sandor's head snapped towards her.

 _What the hells…_

"I could – but I won't. If you choose to tell me at some time in the future I would like to hear it, but I am not pressing you." Her voice was calm and as hard as he tried, Sandor could detect no falseness in it, nor a tone of irritation or baiting. Realising that his respect for her increased even more.

 _What woman would not want to hear honeyed words whispered into her ears if there was a chance?_

Then came another revelation.

 _She knows me better than anyone I have ever met._

* * *

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled and hissed and the wind whistled outside but other than that they were surrounded by an absolute silence.

"Would you… would you like to touch me?"

A timid voice. A shy voice. But it was Sansa's - Sansa Stark asking if _he_ wanted to touch _her._

 _Does High Septon believe in the Seven?_

Suddenly Sandor felt hot and cold at the same time. Glancing at Sansa he didn't have to see her body under the blanket to know that it was full of unexplored delights; her teats, her stomach, her hips, that round ass he had stared at more than once during their time in this hideaway. Just the thought that he could actually explore her at her own behest increased his heartbeat as well as the blood flow in his nether regions.

 _Not again!_

Wanting to be absolutely certain his ears hadn't deceived him Sandor asked, "Me, touching you? Are you sure?"

Sansa nodded. "If you want. I think it to be only fair. But not too far… you know I can't… I trust you."

Sandor had halfway turned onto his side when the doubt hit him. Yes, she might trust him, but could he trust himself? He hadn't meant to do what he just had, but he had done it anyway. Thank the gods she hadn't minded – but could he truly control himself if he felt her body under his hands, felt her yielding to his touch, heard her sighing a soft sigh?

Sansa watched him expectantly, her gaze darting from his face to his hands and back to his face. A sharp intake of breath suggested she was not quite as composed as she professed to be. She reminded him of a creature of the forest lured in with a treat; willing to come near but at the same time wary and ready to bounce at any second.

 _This could be your last chance, dog. Tomorrow you leave and it is back to Winterfell – where she is the lady and you just a man in her service._

 _What if I can't stop?_

Thoughts raced through Sandor's head when he tried to decide what to do. There were limits to his willpower and never had it been tested as severely as now. Then Sansa's words came back to him. ' _If you choose to tell me at some time in the future…'_

Will _there be a future?_

Exhaling noisily he shook himself, having made up his mind. And with resolution came calm.

"Yes little bird, if I may, I will touch you."

Sansa sank slightly on her spot and seeing that Sandor knew he had made the right choice. Slowly, very slowly he turned to her fully and propping himself on an elbow raised his free hand to her.

The tips of his fingers traced the outlines of her face; hairline, the left temple, the right temple, the shell of her ear, chin. Her skin was so delicate and pale against the swarthiness of his soldier's hands, calloused and darkened by the sun.

 _So soft._

For a moment Sandor closed his eyes to better absorb the feeling. It was the same as when she had touched him; that the sensation was now concentrated on his fingertips made no difference. They shared a skin and that was enough.

When he opened them again he saw Sansa staring at him; fearlessly, breathlessly, her eyes boring straight into his. He ran his thumb across her brow, skimmed past her nose, brushed against her lower lip. Leaving it there for a moment he was rewarded by the sight of Sansa's mouth opening and her upper lip grazing its tip.

Sandor's stomach clenched at that – and seeing the tip of her tongue touching the hard pad of his thumb made it clench again.

The face he had watched from afar for a million times finally his, under his scrutiny. Those graceful lines for him to map out; that corner of the mouth for him to sketch into the memory of his touch.

 _This is enough._

 _For now._

 _By the grace of the gods, there may be another time._

After the longest time, during which Sandor deliberately kept his focus on Sansa's face, refusing to let it wander further down, he pulled himself up.

"There, girl. Now I have touched you. And I thank you for it."

Not waiting for an answer he strode to where he had left his sword hanging from the wall and took it. Removing the blade from its scabbard he lay both of them on the pallet between him and the girl; blade on his side, the leather scabbard on hers. The metal gleamed dully orange and brown, making it look like it was covered in dried blood – as it had been often enough.

"What…what are you doing?" Sansa's eyebrows drew together and she blinked, fumbling for the scabbard.

"Leave it be. I am doing what I should have done a long time ago."

"But, you mean… that was it?"

At other times the disappointment in her voice would have pleased Sandor, as would the disbelief spread on her face, but for now he needed to bring the situation under control again.

"You may trust me, but I am not a man who is used to play these games. And I rather not risk any further." He stopped and looked at Sansa. "I am not a good man. You should not think that only because a bear has had its claws removed, it is safe to go into its den."

Sansa started to protest but he put the end to it with his raised hand.

"You and I are going to sleep now. Aye, we will share this pallet but the sword stays between us. And tomorrow morning we ride to Winterfell and you do what you must."

A deep breath.

"And what happens then… as I said, it is up to you. I am not going anywhere."

Sansa fell back on the mattress. Apparently judging that Sandor could not be swayed in this she nodded.

"Be it as you say, then."

"You promise to behave?"

Sansa stared at him and without intending to, the corner of Sandor's mouth started to twitch - in a good way. Here he was, a mighty warrior lecturing to a lithe girl and a noble lady to a boot about how she should behave herself.

Sansa was fast; she caught on to that tiniest of twitches and her mouth curved into a smile.

"I promise I will, Sandor. Your virtue is safe with me."

The atmosphere having become considerably lighter Sandor judged it safe to return to the bed.

 _One more night._

 _For now._


	19. What Happens Then

**Author's Notes: This is it!** (At least almost – see the notes at the end…) Thank you so much to all of you who have followed this story and favoured and encouraged me with your lovely comments! Never would I have thought that taking an old story and 'editing it just slightly' would have turned out to this big thing, that has dominated my writing for the last five months and resulted in over 55,000 words… oh well! It has been a blast!

* * *

Sandor's night passed surprisingly peacefully. Whether it was the sword, on top of which he rolled a few times only to be jolted away by the cool kiss of the blade, or his resolution which removed all ambiguity of the situation, he slept soundly until the morning sun started to tickle his eyelids.

Yawning, he stretched his arms and back and pushed away the blanket that was now suffocating him with its warmth. A quick look confirmed to him that Sansa was still sleeping, her mouth slightly open, breathing steadily.

As before, Sandor couldn't let the opportunity pass without observing her. If he would wake up to this sight for the rest of his life, he would never get tired of…

 _STOP IT._

A few times the future had spread out in front of him clear, readily mapped out with no surprises in sight. First with the Lannisters; to serve the boy king as long as he was needed, or die doing it, if that was his fate. If not, then retire in the Red Keep or mayhap in the Casterly Rock, an old soldier living from the scraps of mighty until an illness or injury took him into his grave.

The second time at the Quiet Isle; to keep on digging graves and carrying on with his penitence – for what it was worth – until the strength of his body gave in and he ended up in the dormitory where old brothers passed their remaining years away in silence and solemnity until their gods took them away.

There had been even the third time, not so clear and so guaranteed, but still; to serve the young Lord Stark in Winterfell until he grew up to be a man, and beyond. Train, patrol, fight when needed, follow the orders, steal glimpses of Lady Lannister and feel himself the greatest fool in the world because of it. Mayhap he would have stayed there until his twilight years, or mayhap he would have eventually left for something else – to become a sellsword across the sea, if he had not become too old for that shit.

None of those futures were his now. What was, he didn't know. All he was sure of was that he would stay and wait for Sansa's decree. Whatever it was.

As he was watching her she shifted, yawned, and opened her eyes, their corners crinkling slightly as a slow and shy smile spread on her face.

 _Don't linger, dog. Time to get back to reality._

* * *

True to his word Sandor brook no arguments from Sansa but was already half-way through packing by the time she got out of the hut. The road to Winterfell beckoned.

Possibly sensing his determination Sansa didn't offer resistance nor suggested further stay, but got ready efficiently, silently. Without the few soft words as a greeting and a smile directed at him, Sandor might have felt awkward about their interaction since what had transpired the previous evening - but there was enough warmth in her demeanour to allay any doubts.

The magic had not left them.

Their ride back was considerably easier than the night-time journey just a few days ago. Nature lavished them with its beauty; bright sunshine illuminating the landscape, cool and crisp air filling their lungs, slight breeze cooling their skin, green so bright it seemed from another world assaulting their senses.

Sandor couldn't help thinking what a glorious day it would have been for fishing and crabbing, maybe even for hunting for northern deer. But alas, no time for such frivolities.

They made good progress but every now and then Sandor thought he saw reluctance in Sansa's bearing. She was the first to suggest a break to drink from the water skins they had filled from the stream, the first to demand to go slow over a rocky patch. And as they got nearer to Winterfell she grew increasingly quiet.

Somehow, almost like by a trick of a hand of an illusionist or a mummer, she had transformed. Not a forest lass or a carefree girl anymore, she was a noble lady once again. Her posture more rigid, her face impassive and calm, her shoulders back and head up high – whatever was waiting for her she was ready for it.

Part of Sandor admired her for it, another part was saddened by the chance. How hard the return would be for her... He pulled Stranger's reins to let Sansa's mare trot to the side.

"Regrets?"

Sansa looked at him distractedly. "What? No, no regrets. I am just thinking of all the things that have to be done."

"By now most guests should have left if Jaime has done his job proper."

"Yes… it is not the guests that are in my mind, though. It could be," she sighed, " a bit awkward, that's all."

"Jaime will do as he promised, don't fret about that. He will leave as he should. But talking about awkwardness, what are you going to do with Brienne the Blue?"

Sansa smiled. "Oh yes, Brienne, the darling girl."

 _'The darling girl'?_ Sandor couldn't imagine many people referring to the stern warrior maid with those words.

"You know, she always wanted to go on a search for Arya. Swore she could not rest until she had filled her vow to my lady mother. I didn't fully understand for a long time why she didn't."

"She may leave for sure. Maybe not for that search, though."

Again Sansa sighed. "I know."

"For how long?"

"Not initially, not when we first returned. Only gradually I started to see what it really was. And then I thought it was just infatuation on her part - I am ashamed to say that even I didn't think that Jaime too could… By the time I knew that their feelings went both ways it was however too late, the engagement was already announced and the wedding preparations were in motion."

She turned to look at Sandor. "I really can't understand what I was thinking at the time, agreeing to it all. It made sense then I guess – but not anymore." She shook her head. "It is as if I have woken from a deep sleep and only now can separate dream from reality."

"Dream – or a nightmare?" Sandor did not mean it with malice but was curious to hear Sansa referring to her experiences along the same lines as he did his. He too felt that he had been in deep slumber, denying the truth, just living day by day refusing to think what could be, what could have been. And if the old gods had not interfered, he would be in that state still – and Sansa tied to a loveless marriage.

"Not nightmare like the others I have lived through. Just… mind-numbing. Gloomy. Like a part of me would have been dead inside."

"I know the feeling," Sandor nodded. "Still, it doesn't solve the matter of Lady Brienne."

They had slowed down to a walking pace. Winterfell was not going anywhere and Sandor had to admit that despite all his determination and bluster he too was not in too much of a hurry to get back.

"You say she may not fulfil her vows?"

"If Jaime goes to Casterly Rock, I'll bet Strangers balls that she will follow him. And she would feel bad about it too, thinking that would be disrespectful towards you. She thinks very highly of you."

"And I of her. Oh, I have to make it absolutely clear to her that she – that they - have my blessings. For whatever they are worth."

The path ahead curved and as Sandor had known, behind it the distant walls of Winterfell greeted them. Grey, sturdy, standing in the middle of the wild North just as Brandon the Builder had raised them thousands of years ago. Unmoving, shaking away skirmishes and damages even as big as the recent sack like a dog shakes off fleas.

Without speaking a word at the sight of the gates Sandor fell behind as a man serving his lady would, and thus they rode into the main yard. The keep was quiet with only a few servants and men-at-arms walking about and throwing curious peeks in their direction, none of them, however, addressing them directly.

Sandor called for stable hands with brisk instructions of what to do with their horses and possessions, then followed Sansa inside the keep.

 _Here we go._

* * *

After a softly spoken enquiry from Sansa, they were informed that Ser Jaime was in the small solar, the same room where Sansa had broken her decision to Sandor.

He was not alone; as they entered the room, Brienne stood next to a sitting Jaime, both boring down on a piece of unfolded paper that looked like a map. Hearing noises Jaime glanced up and folded the thing so fast that Sandor couldn't see what it was about. Westerlands, mayhap, planning their route to Jaime's family seat?

"Lady Sansa, finally! I have been cursing myself for not sending men after you that night. We have been worried."

Jaime looked splendid. The worn expression he had carried on his wedding day – no matter how carefully masked under an air of nonchalance – was gone and his appearance of was that of a man in whose world everything was right. His teeth flashed as he smiled and as he raised himself half up Sandor saw that he was wearing the Lannister colors through and through. No more muted greys and browns in an attempt to blend in with the northern house. No, he was his own man now.

Who that 'we' referred to was obvious from the way Brienne blushed, drawing up to her considerable height. If Jaime was full of confidence, the same could not be said about her. She was a superb sight in her armor and yet she managed to look like a little girl caught stealing from the sweets jar.

"Lady Sansa, delighted to see you back," she muttered, her eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of the brooch securing Sansa's cloak.

"Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne, I apologise if my absence has caused you distress. I assure you I have been perfectly safe and well; there was no need to be concerned about me."

Both Jaime and Brienne glanced at Sandor now, who was shifting on his feet a few steps behind Sansa. Nods and mutterings of 'Clegane' were his greetings, and he returned them with a curt nod.

Sansa walked around the desk behind which Jaime sat – or had sat, he now jumping up and pushing the chair towards the lady of the keep. Sansa sank on it with a sigh, undoubtedly relieved to be finally out of the saddle.

"Pray tell me, how are things? I feel awful for leaving that whole sorry mess for you to sort out, but you insisted…'

"So I did and would do again if needed. Everything is well. I sent the guests packing – with appropriately agreeable words, naturally. The last ones departed yesterday, so only people of the keep are here now."

Jaime's smile was smug, but Sandor didn't begrudge him for it. He had done well.

"And the annulment?"

"Already put in motion. I have written a letter and have had it signed by Maester Samwell, Lord Umber and Lord Glover – the only thing that is needed is the testimony of the Septon after the inspection of the goodwoman. Him I have kept here – the Septon I mean." An inquisitive glance in Sandor's direction infuriated Sandor, and yet he had to settle with biting his tongue. Better let Sansa handle this.

Full of grace and gratitude Sansa complimented Jaime for the work well done, brushing aside the sensitive topic of inspection with an airy wave of 'will be done tomorrow after I have recovered from my travel'. After some more talk about practicalities and the situation in the keep, to which both Sandor and Brienne were only observers, Jaime seized his moment.

"Lady Sansa, we might as well also discuss the next actions now, to reach a mutual agreement about them." He had dragged another chair to the other side of the large desk and seated himself right opposite to Sansa. For the first time, Sandor detected slight nervousness in him.

 _Kingslayer, nervous?_

It was such an unusual prospect that Sandor sprang into attention – and so did Brienne, he noticed. Sansa nodded for Jaime to go ahead, smiling. She clearly wanted to make this as easy and amicable as possible for all of them.

"What is on your mind, pray tell?"

"As is rather obvious, there is no reason for me to stay in the North anymore. I have intruded upon your hospitality long enough, and with your leave, I would like to start towards the South as soon as it is practical. I will not abandon you in the hour of your need, though, but stay here as long as you need me to."

"I will be sorry to see you go, as you have been such a good friend to me and my house, but I understand, and wish you godspeed."

Jaime took a deep breath. "I would also like for lady Brienne to join me."

"Only if it pleases you, my lady," Brienne interjected, her blush deepening. "I have sworn an oath to your lady mother and then to you, and I will do as you wish."

Sansa turned and flashed her most assuring smile at her. "Lady Brienne, you have served both of us well and I know my mother would agree with me fully on that. You deserve to take your life into your own hands and I grant you my permission to leave with Ser Jaime to go to Casterly Rock or wherever you wish to go."

Brienne looked confused and Jaime smirked. "Casterly Rock? But my lady…"

"We are not going to the Westerlands – not for now anyway." Jaime interrupted her. "Lady Brienne has stubbornly decided to continue her quest for your lady sister and as that seems to be the only way I can keep her by my side, I have agreed to join her on that. As soon as the raven from the High Septon granting our annulment arrives, we plan to ride to Crownlands."

Jaime looked at Sandor. "We will start our search in Saltpans and Maidenpool and all the harbour towns, and if needed, sail across the Narrow Sea to continue our search in Essos – as per what Clegane has told us about the last known movements of Lady Arya. Is that so?"

Sandor murmured his agreement to the plan, outwardly maintaining a blank face but inwardly chortling. So, Brienne was the one wearing breeches in this relationship - he should have guessed. Not that Jaime seemed to mind, smiling at the lady warrior with no trace of being displeased with the outcome.

 _Good for her. Good for him._

Sansa was taken by surprise by Jaime's announcement but soon recovered.

"Search for Arya? But that is wonderful! Of course I will give my utmost support for that endeavour, and thank you both for agreeing to do that! Nothing would make me happier than to see her returned to where she belongs, back with her pack."

Her eyes glistened and Sandor couldn't help wishing that the quest would prove successful. No matter that the wolf bitch would hate his guts and likely try to murder him in his sleep if she returned – but if that made Sansa happy, it would be worth it. He would just have to keep is guard up.

"There is one more thing, Lady Sansa" Jaime continued. He exchanged a quick glance with Brienne, who from the looks of it would have rather been swallowed by the ground than stood there. "I shall take Lady Brienne with me not as my companion, but as my lady wife."

 _Well, that was fast._

Jaime had moved to stand next to his betrothed – _can one be betrothed to one while still wedded to another?_ – and took his stance there, his jaw set, fists slightly tightened, feet planted solidly in a wide stance, half covering Brienne behind him.

As if he expected Sansa to bodily attack him for his audacity. Sandor couldn't hide his amusement anymore but snorted out loud.

To Sansa's credit, she didn't miss a beat. "You will? But that is wonderful! Let me congratulate you from the bottom of my heart – I am so happy for you both!"

Brienne blinked and even Jaime's unflappable composure crumbled a bit.

"You are? That is excellent – and I am sorry to have sprung the news on you so soon after your return. But I wanted there to be no misunderstandings."

"Thank you, Lady Sansa – and I am sorry." Brienne's smile had gained some assurance but was still rather a feeble show.

Sansa became serious.

"Lady Brienne, may I have a few words with you, in private? I am sure Ser Jaime and Sandor don't mind stepping outside for a few moments?"

* * *

Her wishes were their commands and soon the two men found themselves in the corridor. The keep was quiet and it was just the two of them, neither willing to stray too far away from the door.

"What on earth would she want to say to her?" Jaime muttered, frowning.

"Don't fret. She will give her her blessings in regards to you and assure her that she will bear no ill will towards her for snatching her ex-husband for herself."

Jaime swished around. "How would you know that? Did she tell you so?"

"She did."

Jaime contemplated that for a while, then as if remembering something strolled to Sandor. He was shorter of the two but succeeded in staring down at him even though strictly speaking it was physically impossible.

"Three days and three nights. What were you thinking, Clegane? What was that about? Didn't you sacrifice a thought to her reputation?!"

Jaime was angry and the unfairness of the accusation stirred Sandor's blood up as well.

"None of your business, Kingslayer. But since you ask, I didn't have to think anything, I was only doing as I was told."

Those damned raised eyebrows again.

"She wanted to stay in the woods for three days and nights with a man as unsavoury as you? You are a good warrior and you have my respect, but what would make a lady like her to endure your company for such a time?"

Sandor ignored the question, thoroughly bristled by Jaime's tone. The tone which grew even colder, as did Jaime's eyes when they bored down on him.

"If you ever as much as touched a hair on her head, I swear…"

"You swear what!? What about your precious Brienne, should we ask the goodwoman to examine her as well?"

"Brienne is a lady! I would never…"

"You know as well as I that there are things a man can do to a woman without breaking the last barrier. I could ask the same from you."

"She is not yours to ask! And how come you are suddenly so knowledgeable about the finesses of bed sports?"

"Neither is Sansa yours, not any more. And do not forget that she is a lady just as Brienne, and more. To question me is to question her, and she deserves more respect than this. Besides, who do you take me for anyway - my brother?!"

If Sandor wouldn't have been so riled he might have found it amusing to think what Jaime would say if he knew the truth; how in the reality it had been exactly the opposite; Sansa not keeping her hands off him.

Jaime withdrew and scrutinised Sandor for a while.

"So you swear by your honour you didn't touch her or offend her in any way?"

"Fuck my honour, and yours. Ask her if you are so concerned. Let Sansa tell you if I did right by her or not."

By now Jaime seemed to have calmed down and a smirk appeared on that handsome face, converting him back to his usual self.

"Maybe I am not being fair. It is just… nevermind."

Still bristling, Sandor forced himself to relax. As annoying as Jaime's unfounded accusations were, he had to admit to himself that he couldn't really blame him. Looking after Sansa's interests was something he could relate to.

"She wanted to have a break from the duties and tribulations of a noble lady for a few days and just lead a simple life. I helped her."

Jaime nodded. "I can see that. Especially after a scandal like this. As for me, I don't care, my name has been mud for so long that another black mark against it make no difference. But for her – reputation is important for ladies."

"I'd think you have lived close enough to one who doesn't think so, for you to realise that Sansa has given up those airs as well. She does as she pleases now."

"What happened to "Lady Sansa"?" Jaime cocked his head. "I swear I am rather curious about this all – but as you rightly pointed, it is not really my business. Even though strictly speaking it is my wife you are talking about."

"Your wife my ass," grunted Sandor, his good humour returning.

Before Jaime had a chance to retort, the door opened and Brienne gestured them to get back in. She smiled broadly and there was a new spring in her step, suggesting to Sandor that the discussion had gone well. The similar expression on Sansa's face and a small private smile directed straight at him confirmed it.

"Now, if you excuse me, I am rather worn from the ride and would welcome a warm bath and some rest," Sansa declared, standing up and walking towards the door. "Sandor, will you please escort me to my chambers?"

Without further ado, she placed her hand on his arm and the two made their way to the door. As he left the room Sandor saw Jaime staring at their joined hands with narrowed eyes, shaking his head slightly.

The thought of the Kingslayer's puzzlement felt oddly satisfying to him and he pulled Sansa closer.

 _Let him wonder._

* * *

After depositing Sansa into the care of her maids Sandor went to his own room and unpacked his meagre things. Looking around the place which he had already thought of leaving behind him for good brought him some satisfaction, but he was too restless to stay there for long.

Not having any duties for the day and not in the mood to go searching for some, he wandered around the keep for a while, visiting the stables to check on Stranger, sneaking into the kitchens for a quick bite before the day's main meal, and just generally walking around aimlessly. Eventually, without any conscious thought, his steps took him to the Godswood and soon he found himself in front of the old heart tree.

The tree in front of which he had stood and watched Sansa on her prayers when the world had shifted.

Sandor remembered it now; how he had felt a tremor, a shudder, a vibration in the air. Was that the moment when the old gods had changed the course of his life as inevitably as an earthquake does when it raises the land in one place and flattens it in another, thus causing great big waters to find new routes for their journey?

Had that been the moment when Sansa had opened her heart to the gods and hoped that they saw deep inside her soul and grant her what was best for her?

 _Am I best for her?_

Without intending to, Sandor sank down to his knees, slowly, unhurriedly, a great big weight descending to kneel in front of an ancient mystery he could not understand.

The Hound would have pissed on the old gods.

Sandor Clegane would have doubted them.

The man who had had his life turned upside down and seen his heart's desire to be fulfilled, bowed his head in silent supplication.

 ** _Until Thine Will Is Done._**

* * *

 **Further Notes:** I should stop here. I really should. The groundhog day was lived over and over for many times, the hero of this story struggled through to understand what caused his predicament, rose to the occasion and tried to solve it, doggedly trying again and again until he got it right. And after that the story continued to deal with the aftermath and to see the hero and the heroine finally in a safe place… What else is there to write?

But because I am such a sucker for epilogues – I love reading them and I love writing them – I will write one for this. By all means, if the story has reached its completion here and you think any epilogue would only muddy the waters, please do stop here. If not – well, I'll see you soon again!


	20. EPILOGUE

**Author's Notes:** It has been my absolute pleasure to write and share this story with you – but finally it is time to call it an end…Thanks for joining the ride, and please, don't be shy about sharing with me your thoughts or comments about this story!

* * *

 ** _*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*_**

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

Cold horror clutched his heart and he couldn't breath; he clawed at his chest, suffocating, his vision dwindling into horrible darkness behind his eyelids. His heart thundered in his chest like a trapped animal rattling against its shackles, thumping, skipping a beat and pounding against his ribcage. He fell…

 ** _NO!_**

* * *

 _Sandor hadn't dreamt those particular nightmares for a long while, soothed by the steady pace and easy contentment of his life as it was now. Earlier he had suffered from them frequently, imagining he was back in_ that _day, forced to start it again and again and again in an effort to solve the quandary they had found themselves in. To find his way to Sansa without knowing how._

 _Yet gradually the horror of those dreams had disappeared, pushed away by the new-fangled things his life was filled with – most of all her._

 _His lady wife._

* * *

Sandor drew in a deep breath, vaguely becoming aware that he was not, as a matter of fact, falling into that precipice again, but was lying in a soft bed, covered by a soft blanket, sensing a soft form next to him.

Sansa shifted, her elbow gracing Sandor's side.

 _Thankthegodsthankthegodsthankthegods._

Sandor's consciousness clasped onto that touch, her scent. _They_ were the reality.

* * *

 _"The Second Wedding of Winterfell" it had been called._

 _The guests had come from far and wide, and the numbers had been even higher than in The First Wedding of Winterfell – the scandalous one. Later many who had attended both the events were heard boasting about it, sharing stories of disrepute, high passions and unheard of turn of events surrounding the feasts._

 _The second time neither Sandor nor Brienne had stood in the honour-guard, although they had still faced each other in the sept. For once, Brienne had submitted to the rules of propriety and had worn a dress, but under Sansa's tutelage it had been just right for her; unadorned and cleanly cut, her maiden's cloak proudly displaying the colours of Tarth. Next to her Jaime had looked splendid as always in Lannister red and gold._

 _Sansa… Sandor hadn't really paid attention to what in hells she had worn; she would have looked just as lovely in his eyes, had she been dressed in a pig herders garb._

 _At the time Sandor had known that everyone's eyes had been trained on him, thinking the ex-Lannister Hound to be woefully out of place in that gathering of nobles, and by the side of such a lovely lady. Black and grey had been his attire, the only concession to his past being the yellow lining of the cloak he had wrapped around Sansa's slender shoulders. One of the three dogs had been replaced by a wolf, indicating his intention to forgo his own house in favour of a new cadet house granted to Sansa by the grace of her brother, the Lord of Winterfell._

 _He hadn't cared about the dark looks. If they had thought their long faces would have been able to spoil that day for him they had had another thing coming. He had met Sansa's gaze in the flicker of candlelight and everything else had disappeared._

 _In the sept there had been the four of them, Sansa and Sandor saying their vows first, Jaime and Brienne immediately after. In the Godswood it had been only him and Sansa and all those who still believed in the old gods standing as witnesses as they had sworn themselves to each other for that day and for eternity, for as long as they both might live._

 _At the end of the solemn ceremony, Sandor had watched deep into the red eyes of the heart tree and silently nodded the old gods once again in recognition of the gift they had bestowed on him._

* * *

How it was possible that the relief, when it came, was every time as profound and liberating, Sandor did not know. This was not like those dreams of the past when he had dreamt of Gregor pressing his face to the hot coals over and over again. No, waking into the reality of those had been a dull relief, acknowledgment of cruelty done and the acceptance that the aftermath was still his to bear.

But these nightmares; the sense of utter loss and desolation, at dawn being replaced by the sense of jubilation and profound gratitude…

He still couldn't handle it very well.

"I believe our eldest has run out of patience and tried to break the fast on his own – or with the help of his little brother," Sansa's sleepy voice sighed. "I better go and see what damage they have done this time."

By now Sandor's heartbeat had returned to almost normal, the shock of his rude awakening gradually fading away. Yet he was not fully in this moment either – not yet. He knew the reality of it; Sansa by her side as his lady wife, their two sons wreaking havoc in the main room and the adjoining new kitchen, probably climbing on top of the cupboards in search of food. Here in the woods, their life was not following the usual pattern of the keep with meals in the main hall and servants doing their bidding.

But it was one thing to be aware of it in one's head, another thing to reel from the terrible feeling of loss…of it all.

Sandor pulled his lady wife back into his arms.

"Don't go yet, little bird," he breathed into her ear. If his voice was somewhat shaky, what of it?

* * *

 _In one thing he had been right. He had never tired of waking up next to her – not even after many years of wedded life, which they had unconventionally lived in their shared chambers. That it had nothing to do with the lack of space in the newly established Clegane's Burrow, built further north from Winterfell, became obvious only once the keep stood tall and ready, its many chambers completed._

 _There was not to be Lord's and Lady's chambers for as long as there was breath in his body, Sandor had sworn, and Sansa had agreed._

* * *

Sansa yielded into his touch and fell back on the bed.

"I hear neither crying nor sounds of small bodies falling from great heights, so I guess they'll manage without me for a bit longer." She studied Sandor and her expression changed. "What is it?"

Sandor's throat was dry and he only looked at her. He didn't want a big fuss made of this – but his wife knew him too well.

"You had that dream again." It was a statement, not a query. "I thought I felt your heart racing."

"The sounds – made it worse." It was bad enough if the dreams came on their own, but to be awakened by _that…_

* * *

 _After many years Sandor had finally confided in Sansa about the God's Will and the experiences of that horrible, wonderful, exasperating and enchanting day. At first, she had refused to believe him, teasing him only to try to make out excuses for his suddenly changed behaviour on that very day. Yet after a visit to Winterfell where she had spoken with Maester Samwell – under false pretences, of course – she had returned to Sandor with her eyes wide, disbelief changed to curiosity._

 _"You did what?!" she had exclaimed in shock when Sandor had revealed her his botched abduction attempt._

 _"I had to get you away – how was I supposed to do that otherwise?"_

 _"As you did, by revealing yourself to me," Sansa had kissed him firmly on the lips and the discussion had been diverted to more pleasurable directions._

 _Later she had gone quiet when Sandor had told her how he had left her in her wedding chamber with Jaime on the first few nights, and how she had held on to him._

 _"To think how things could have been… Jaime and Brienne not living happily in Casterly Rock as they do now, their sons having never been born…"_

 _"The gods were stubborn. They didn't let go until I had diverted you from your path," Sandor had grumbled. That it all had happened had still been a wonder to him and there had been times he had had to pinch himself to make sure it all had not just been a dream._

 _"I am glad you did," Sansa had said simply - but since then Sandor had noticed her visiting the Godswood of their keep more often than before, spending time in front of its heart tree._

 _Once he had sneaked upon her, silently, seeing her kneeling on the ground with her head bowed, murmuring softly as if to herself. He had pricked his ears and heard her words._

"Thank you for your blessings, for what you did. Thank you for him, thank you for our sons, thank you for our happiness. I should never have doubted you, even during all those years in the South when I thought your ears were closed to my prayers. I should have known, I should have trusted you. Always - until your will is done."

 _Sandor had backed away then, as silently as he had arrived._

* * *

Sansa twined her way into the circle of his arms and pressed her head against his still heaving chest.

"Shhhhh – I am here." Her fingers drew lazy circles against his hip, her other hand resting at his ribs. She wore a thin shift but Sandor was naked and could feel her body pressed against his all too well.

Sandor closed his eyes. Over the years he had grown accustomed to a human touch, but there were times when it was still new to him – that feeling of another person's skin meeting his own, the heat of their bodies blending. The sensation of blood thrumming in Sansa's veins and the involuntary reactions of her flesh when he touched her.

Always a marvel.

* * *

 _Over the years they had learned to comfort each other when nightmares took over their sleep. Sansa's were filled with images of her lord father's head at the stake, the overwhelming sense of oppression in her gilded cage, the unwanted attentions of Littlefinger. When she tossed in her sleep and let out small distressed noises it was Sandor who took her into his arms and soothed her, murmuring into her ears senseless words, as if settling down a skittish horse._

 _And when Sandor broke into cold sweat and his muscles tensed hard as a rock, it was Sansa who squirmed into his embrace and brushed her lips against his brow, his chin, his lips, and told him that she was there and was never going to leave him._

 _And as if an affirmation of life and victory of the past, more often than not they ended up loving each other feverishly, passionately, with all their heart. If Sandor at those times was the Hound again and bruised her in his bent-up emotional state, Sansa welcomed his ardour and responded to it with her own._

 _Yes, they were each other's rock and anchor._

* * *

The familiar arousal surprised Sandor. He would have thought that he needed a few more moments to transfer himself from that dark void into the lightness of their existence - but his body had other notions. Sansa, sensing his growing hardness, threw a concerned look towards the door of their chamber, but Sandor had been prepared.

Barring their door in their secret hideaway – the previously deserted hut in the wilderness – had become a necessity since their eldest had become old enough to accompany them for their stolen getaways.

They would not be interrupted.

* * *

 _Over the years Sansa had ordered the hut and its surroundings restored, yet had resisted the temptation to make it a grand house. And year after year they had returned to it, sometimes just them, sometimes with their children; sometimes for only a few days, sometimes for longer. And always just them, no servants nor maids, no trappings of nobility. Fishing, crabbing, cooking their simple fare in the open fire or in their snug new kitchen, Sansa the carefree girl again._

 _And when it had been just the two of them, they had relived the day they first got together there again and again and again._

* * *

Assured that they would not be intruded upon their moment of wedded bliss Sansa tugged at her shift. Sandor interpreted it as a sign it was meant to be – they had learned to read each other so well – and pulled it above her head and carelessly threw it on the floor.

Laying the flat of his hand on her breast he succumbed to the precipice of another kind; this one filled with sights and sensations and elations of the body. He loved to look at her like that, totally naked, her pale skin flushed pink, her eyes half-lidded in anticipation of what she knew was to come.

Sansa's nipples hard against the palm of his hand Sandor rubbed them slowly with his thumb, ragged edges of his nails drawing small trails into her unblemished skin. Wanting more than what his eyes could take in, he nuzzled his face against the valley between her breasts, inhaling her scent in deep lungfuls of air. Sandor _loved_ her scent, especially when she had gone without a bath for a while and the musky undertones of her sweat and womanhood overcame the flowery tones of her bath salts.

Sansa threw her head back and sighed contentedly. She was usually slower to warm up, enjoying when her senses were woken up gently, unhurriedly. Sandor had learned that over many nights and days when faced with the bewildering new world he had found himself in.

The world with a willing woman, a _loving_ woman. A woman who wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Sometimes the weight of it was a burden on his shoulders, the dread that one of these days she would look at him and see him for what he as; an old dog, unused to petting and clumsy in his attempts to return her many favours.

So far that day had not arrived and he hoped it would never come, and that he would learn to be a better man - worthy of her.

Sandor kissed her – an art he had learned slowly but practiced eagerly - and nipped at her lips, her tongue, tasted her sweetness. Open-mouthed kisses trailing down Sansa's chin and throat and to where his thumbs still did their lazy dance. Sandor captured one of her nipples between his lips and suckled, his mind flashing back to the days when she had nursed their first-born and he had tasted the sweetness of her milk. He had been embarrassed the first time his eagerness had caused it to flow – but Sansa had brushed his awkwardness away with a laugh and a light-hearted comment and he had loved her for that.

Sometimes Sandor thought kissing was an act more intimate than fucking and he was glad he had never bothered to try it with women of his past.

Wet and clumsy, alternating between her breasts and mouth, their hot breaths mingling while Sandor continued his relentless attack on her, only to be jolted by the press of Sansa's hand on his cock. Slowly, unhurriedly, she encircled it with her fingers and started pulling it, squeezing it in the way she knew he enjoyed the most. He was hard already, but she could always tease an extra length, an extra twitch out of him – fuck if he knew how but he had never stopped to respond to her touch. The little bird had gone a long way from that first fumbling attempt when she had first laid her hands on him.

 _Fuck!_

Groaning against her shoulder, muffling the sound into her flesh, Sandor slid his hand lower, skimming past her stomach down to the juncture of her thighs. Slick and swollen, she was already ready for him - and as he wanted to invade her in every way possible and unable to wait any longer he slowly pressed his forefinger into her heat. Overwhelmed by the sensation and the knowledge that it was just a foretaste of even greater delights, Sandor gritted his teeth. He felt her sweet cunt, its contractions, sensed her eagerness for more.

"Sandor, please…" A breathless whimper, the sound he loved more than anything in the world. His little bird begging for his cock.

How had he ever thought to have known anything about fucking, or women, before she had entered his life? That it could be more – so much more – than just emptying his balls in a meaningless act?

Sansa squirmed under his weight and suddenly Sandor felt her teeth biting into his shoulder, drawing blood. Suppressing a groan he fastened the pace of his ministrations and was rewarded with another yelp, another nibble, another graze of her sharp teeth. It was driving him crazy and Sandor wanted nothing more than to respond to her assault with the ferocity of his own. He panted and gathered her long hair into his fist and pulled it back to reveal her vulnerable throat for him to nibble, to find her pulse point and suck on it - but this was not the time nor place for heated aggression, not with their children so close.

Instead, he suppressed that urge and turned her on her side, not ungently, her back towards him. Sansa complied readily enough but in the ensuing tumble lost her grip on his cock – but it didn't truly matter, Sandor already had other ideas. Gathering her arse cheeks into his hands he squeezed them, they fitting perfectly into his palms, and nudged his cock closer to press it against that soft, plump flesh. Sansa didn't need further guidance but promptly lifted her thigh to let him in – and he did, sliding with a deep sigh into her slickness.

 _Seven hells!_

Taking her like this, sideways, had been an invention of necessity, allowing them to enjoy their coupling quietly, silently, only a hitched breath, soft murmur and creaking of bed boards betraying what was going on under the furs. As much a Sandor enjoyed her wanton and loud, the intimacy and secrecy of the act this way brought with it a different aspect. Private. Secret. Hidden.

They must have made love hundreds of times or more, and always it was different. Sometimes characterised by tenderness, soft sighs and caresses, other times by frenzied passion and animalistic deeds. There were times for familiar, comforting union, for playful sport in bed, for stolen quick tryst when the time was in short supply.

And he never got tired of any of it.

Hissing Sandor pushed deeper into her, then out again, then in. His hands moved from Sansa's hips to her shoulders and pressed her until her back was bent all the way down, aligned with his thrusts, the delicate knobs of her backbone gracefully curved. He could see the scars; fine welts indicating where the flat of that bastard Trant's blade had sometimes cut up her porcelain skin. Even her scars were like the rest of her; delicate, graceful, beautiful, but that didn't stop Sandor hating himself when he saw them and remembered his own part in her torture.

 _I just stood there and did nothing._

Many times Sandor had traced those fine lines reverently and let his fingertips ask for her forgiveness, which she had granted gladly, and yet the sight of them made him wince. Not this time, though – he was too far gone, too overwhelmed with her to afford them more than a passing glance.

She had also more mysterious marks, but they had been caused by finer things in life; streaked red lines gracing her skin where her belly had grown to make room for the new life inside it. Following their contours had always filled Sandor with wonder and gratitude, and he had learned that women bore signs of their battles just like warriors they were, even though their battlefields were different. That Sansa had survived her two most deadly encounters, emerging from them drenched with sweat and filled with exhaustion, but holding in her arms the prize most precious - a mewling babe - Sandor had given countless thanks to the gods, old and new.

Blood rushing in Sandor's ears the urgent sensation kept on building inside him, and soon he realised he couldn't take much more – but when he peaked he wanted to see her face. Pulling out and earning a sobbed remonstration from Sansa in the process he bodily flipped her on her back, kicked her knees apart and placed himself between her legs and thrust inside almost without missing a beat – then stopped and looked at her. Sansa's eyes were huge and dark and mirrored his own want, and the look in them sent a thousand sparks of arousal run through Sandor's entire body. That, and her hand now cupping his balls softly, tenderly, and yet with enough grit to remind him that this soft seductress was, in fact, a wolf in heart, and had sharp claws under that silky exterior. The sense of danger called to the warrior in him and he rumbled in a low voice, words with no meaning.

She smiled back at him and all he could do was to steady himself over her and start pushing again, slowly sheathing himself inside her time and time again. Gods, it never stopped amazing Sandor how it could feel so good!

Sansa had wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down and kissed him thoroughly, slowly, their bodies touching only from the mouth and where he was sliding in and out of her, his cock wet with her desire. In and out, every movement his stamp on her flesh, but as equally a signal of her acceptance of him.

Acceptance of his mind, body, and soul, as wretched and ruined as they were.

This time their coupling was tinged with urgency and caution – despite the barred doors, at any moment a wail could pierce the stifled silence and a child's need for mother interrupt them. Mayhap it was that, combined with Sandor's unspoken need for reassurance after his dark dreams, which saw him grind into his wife with unusual intensity and resolve. Every one of his senses was acute and hypersensitive; the sight of reddening skin around Sansa's breasts, the smell of her sex, the sensation of her tightness around him, the little whimpers she made when he moved inside her…

Sansa rose to the occasion as he had known she would and raised her hips to meet his thrusts, whispering into his ear and begging him to go on, harder, faster, deeper… Her hands had dropped lower, against his ass, forcing him against her so he pushed into her fiercer.

As if he needed any encouragement.

"Sansa, fuck, Sansa…" Sandor's breathing had become hitched. Not much longer, no, he couldn't prevent the approaching release. All he could hope for was that Sansa had ridden on the same wave as he – but to speed her along he slid his hand between their bodies and found her secret nub and rubbed it as he had learned. Sansa jolted and soon started to pant in tune with his ministrations and Sandor knew she was not far. He himself – fuck, his whole body was tingling in anticipation. _Not. Much. Longer._

And then his balls tightened and he recoiled, and at that same moment Sansa hissed and convulsed under him.

* * *

 _The wedding night had been all and more Sandor had ever imagined. No swords between them would have been able to hold him back, nor shying away of a young maiden. He had meant to have her that night and anyone standing in the way of that would have been shorter of the head for sure._

 _Time for waiting had been over._

 _Yet to his astonishment he had not been alone in his impatience – Sansa had surprised him with how uninhibited she had been, how hungry, how wanton. When he had teased her about it later, she had confessed of dreaming about him constantly after those nights in the hut and through the months of waiting for annulment, her fire being stoked by a few stolen kisses and embraces in the secret recesses of the keep whenever they had had a chance. The scandal their betrothal had caused hadn't bothered her the least, and where she led, he followed. To hell with the propriety!_

 _In due course Sansa had grown heavy with a child, and yet new wonders had been revealed to disbelieving Sandor._

 _The Hound would have rolled his eyes._

 _Sandor Clegane had drank in the sight of his son._

 _The blood of their blood, the flesh of their flesh._

* * *

Sandor collapsed like a log on the bed next to Sansa after having ridden the last waves of pleasure with her – exhausted, blown, drained. That Sansa was different, he never truly could get his head around. Even after their most intense coupling she coud be filled with energy and often they stayed up a long time talking – or to be precise, Sansa talking and Sandor replying with few words or single sentences. And yet those times were when their lives were put in order, their confidences shared and the bond between forged anew.

Sansa pulled him against her so that his head rested in the curve of her arm and his burned cheek against her collarbone. Her fingers twirled in his long hair and her at first laboured breathing gradually steadied and her running heartbeat evened to a familiar rhythm he knew so well.

"I am here, and I will never leave you," she continued from where she had left before. "It was just a dream. Just a dream."

Sandor burrowed closer. There had been a time when he might have been embarrassed to be seen weak – unsettled by a mere dream. Mayhap he was even now – but not with her.

"I know. Fuck the dreams."

"Yes, we piss on them." That was probably the most vulgar language he had ever heard Sansa use and as mild as it was, the way her soft words clashed with the content made Sandor smile.

Smile was good.

Too soon to his liking Sansa pulled away and angled her discarded shift from the floor, then donned her heavy morning robe to cover herself.

"I better go and see whether we still have sons. It has grown suspiciously quite there. Either they have found food and fed themselves, or ran into the woods like wild animals they are."

"Mayhap knocked each other senseless fighting over a piece of bread," Sandor put forward, only Sansa's raised eyebrow preventing him to make further suggestions of how their two wild sons might have excelled themselves this time.

Soon Sandor heard Sansa admonishing the boys in the main room, her soft voice mingling with the loud noises of their children. Six years and three, sturdy lads with his colouring and appearance of the North.

Exhaling out loudly Sandor closed his eyes. The nightmare was gone, vanished as shadows of the night when the sun rises.

Everything was perfect in the world.

\- THE END -

* * *

 **Notes** : This time it truly IS over! Once again many thanks to all of you who have read and especially those who have commented – it is always such a great thing to connect with readers and see that there are actual people behind the 'hits'… So don't be shy!

I also have to say that from a very dreary start – an old draft that was _horrible_ – I am personally very happy how this turned out. This was the first time I have dabbled with a trope that is 'out of this world' (besides the usual Westeros magick), so this was a new area for me. I suspect that eventually, this fic may even become one of my own favourites – once I get some distance to this after finished writing…


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